River Deep, Ocean Wide
by Nightlightbright
Summary: She's a haunted literary agent in NYC and he's a successful therapist who has closed himself off from life, but she sneaks past all his defenses. A story about facing your fears, and having the courage to overcome your past and make the future you want. AU/AH, Delena, Steroline, Jalaric
1. Ch 1 - Good Morning

**Chapter 1: Good Morning_  
_**

_Ding._

The elevator doors slide smoothly open and I stumble over my feet and into the foyer of the agency, balancing an armful of manuscripts and a very hot latte. My massive workbag slips inconveniently off my shoulder, causing some of my coffee to slosh out of the tiny drinking spout and onto my white silk shirt.

Fan-frickin'-tastic.

It's going to be one of those days.

Caroline sees me step out of the elevator through the glass doors separating the entryway from the rest of the office and shoots up out of her chair, moving as fast as her figure-hugging pencil skirt and stilettos will carry her. I don't even bother trying to handle the door. I just flash her a grateful smile, rolling my eyes at my flustered appearance. When she bursts through the swinging monstrosities she is immediately all over me, talking a million miles per minute and grabbing everything out of my hands without my having a chance of getting a word in.

"Oh my goodness Elena you poor thing look at you _why_ you insist on hauling every single manuscript in your queue home and back to the office every single night is beyond me _oh Elena_ is that coffee on your very white super cute shirt who makes that by the way? I really like it! Why don't you just let me run down to the coffee cart and get your coffee in the morning instead of teetering it on top of the million other things you are lugging around? C'mon I'll go get the stain-treatment pen and my back-up shirt and you can borrow it while I work on this one. Why don't you go and get settled and I'll bring in your messages and talk you through your schedule after you've had a second to breathe okay?"

And then she's off. And my hands are empty.

Of course Caroline makes it look easy. My bag hanging in the crook of her arm, the stack of manuscripts balancing effortlessly on her upturned palm, my coffee steady and upright in her right hand.

I sigh.

I don't know how she does it and I don't want to know. All I need to know for sure is that Caroline is never going to quit, because she is the best damn assistant in the business-probably in all of New York, period. The world? Who knows. She's my best friend, so she'll always be the best everything to me.

Through the glass, I watch her set up everything in my office. Once it is all safely where it belongs, she turns the blinds so I'll be shielded from view while I change. That finished, she heads to her desk, pulls a Tide pen out of her top drawer and a perfectly folded navy blouse out of her bottom drawer. I am more than a little impressed, but not surprised. This is Caroline. She probably has a trap door to a fully stocked bomb bunker hiding under her desk, complete with a mani-pedi station and one or two of those awesome massage chairs we can't resist sitting in every time we pass by them at the mall.

The thought of that chair makes me sigh-I am so incredibly tired and the day hasn't even begun.

I walk over to her desk and hold out my hand, which she immediately deposits the shirt into. "How you do it, Caroline, I will never know. But please, just keep it up. You are the best. Seriously…the best."

"Don't question the greatness, Elena. Just enjoy it. You're welcome," she says with a wink, and reaches for the ringing phone.

I head into my office, enjoying the uncharacteristic privacy of my blinds so early in the morning, unbuttoning my shirt as I reach for my coffee, checking my desk for any notes I might have left for myself that might need my immediate attention. There are none, so I take a delicious, frothy sip and slide my shirt off my shoulders before pulling Caroline's on, buttoning it and slipping the hem into my dove grey pencil skirt.

I inhale into the quiet solitude of my office. The rich taste of the latte is still tickling my taste buds, my phone is quiet, the busy hum of the agency outside my door muted to an almost soothing rumble of white noise.

In this moment, it feels like this day could turn out alright after all.

I walk to my wall of windows, sipping my coffee gratefully as I take in the familiar skyline, enjoying my view of the city from up high. I peek down at the cars and people as they jostle and hurry, so small in a city so big. Manhattan is humming and alive, the day already well underway. I exhale the residual tension of the morning from my mind.

I love this city. I love the way life here ebbs and flows but never truly ceases, its steady heartbeat thrumming and pulsing just as it has since before I was born, as it will continue to do long after I'm gone.

Maybe that's what drew me to this city to begin with: the fact that nothing ends, that I will never have to say goodbye.

Never be left alone.

"Good Morning," I murmur, to the world and to no one.

I sigh.

Time to get to work.

I cross the room to my sleek wooden door, taking advantage of the small shield from Caroline's view it provides as I let a yawn overtake me. The very last thing I need is Caroline catching on to how little sleep I've been getting. I do my best to shake it off and test out a perky smile, pinching my cheeks to bring a little color to them before peeking my head out.

"Ready when you are Care," I say, and she gives me a nod while she finishes up her conversation with the phone dangling from her ear, scribbling away on her notepad.

I take my usual spot at the sleek black leather sofa on the far end of my room, kitty-corner to Caroline's favored chair, the cushy steel-grey velvet wingback that faces the windows. It also conveniently conceals anyone who sits in it from the prying eyes of the buzzing office behind us, giving us a little more time to enjoy each other's company than is probably strictly necessary.

I can tell whoever was in charge of decorating this place was directed using words like "modern" and "industrial". It is all glass walls and polished concrete floors and exposed ceiling vents. All the furniture is made of either leather or steel or glass. But I love how the brick on the windowed wall warms the space, gives it some history. How the smooth redwood office doors add a sort of Mad Men feeling. I have no idea how that cozy velvet chair ended up in here, but—as a wise woman once told me—I'm not going to question the greatness. Whenever I have any reading to catch up on in the office, it's my favorite place to curl up.

She bursts in, all pep and purpose, her planner clutched against her chest in the same way I'd imagine she carried her binder in high school. It doesn't surprise me that she won local beauty pageants and was the head of the cheerleading squad and was class president _and_ prom queen—she's the only person I know who could balance it all. I don't imagine she even broke a sweat or sullied a nail on a single perfectly manicured finger.

I smile in spite of myself.

"What are you smiling at?" she asks me, her brow furrowed because she is in full-scale business mode and my grin is ruining it.

"Nothing, Care. Just admiring your organizational tenacity so early in the morning. I love this shirt by the way," I say, motioning to the lovely navy blouse over which I am currently plotting thievery.

"Thank you," she acknowledges crisply, though I see the pleased smile attempting to break through her professional facade. "Feel free to admire away but let's get down to business while you're doing it. I want to get through this as fast as possible so I have time fill you in on the latest deets_ for my wedding_!" At those last few words, her whole demeanor changed from super-assistant on a mission to squealing schoolgirl with a newly acquired quarterback prom date.

"Fair enough," I laugh. "Proceed."

She clears her throat and attempts to settle, but she is still bouncing a little on her toes with barely contained excitement.

"Okay," she starts with a little nod. "So, in order of importance, you have a meeting with Klaus at 11 to discuss some of your clients and check in about some of the new manuscripts you've been reading."

I groan and scrub my face with my hands, feeling the tightness re-settle over my shoulders like a lead blanket. "You know what that means if he's carving out time beyond the regular Monday morning check-ins to pester me, Care. He knows that buzzy new manuscript I got my hands on is perfect for BigLittle and he's going to try to take it from me before I mess up the deal."

"You don't know that Elena," she says, reaching for my leg to reassure me. "I'm sure he just wants to check in with you at the end of the week. You're his best agent and he knows it."

"Yeah. His best agent, whose name happens to be dirt at the biggest publishing house in the industry."

"Well you haven't let it stop you yet, Elena," she says firmly. "You'll crack that bitter old beeyotch Sharon White someday, I know it." She winks and flushes a little at her harsh words. She tries to be tough but I know she never uses words like that. "A great manuscript is a great manuscript, period. And Klaus would be a fool not to back you up."

I roll my eyes. "Maybe you should tell him that, Care. You know he listens to you _a lot more than he listens to me_," I singsong at her.

Caroline blushes brighter and her eyebrows knit together. "That is just _silly,_" she whispers fiercely, as if she's afraid his ear is pressed against my office door. "He knows I'm getting married in a few months so I'm sure whatever…_thing_ he was harboring for me has run its course by now, thank you very much," she finishes with a huff, smoothing her hands over the fabric covering her knees.

I know she used to have a teensy weensy crush on him that hasn't quite gone away and Klaus has been as obvious about his attraction to Caroline as a superior can be about his feelings for someone working under him. It may even be possible that if Caroline hadn't met Stefan when she did, things between her and Klaus could have taken off.

But thank goodness they didn't. Klaus and Caroline's connection may simmer, but Stefan and Caroline's _sizzles_.

"Alright, alright Caroline," I placate. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." I smile guiltily, and she pokes a teasing tongue out at me. "Manuscript thieving boss-man, 11 o'clock, check. What else?"

"I have your list of messages here," she says, handing me a piece of notepaper covered with her tidy handwriting. "I put a little star next to the more urgent ones, so I suggest you start with those. Turner/Grant is pushing back on your extension request for the Lannister novel, but I'm sure you'll sort them out." She smirks conspiratorially at me. "And Julie from Waxman & Dean wants to talk about the tour dates for that female Stephen King-type-author and her Vampire trilogy? I think they want to add a few more dates, since they seem to be such a success. That'll all be coming up soon so that'd be my recommended call-number-one this morning. Oh, and McFarren wanted to set up a lunch meeting with you to talk about his most recent editing pass…"

I roll my eyes.

"I know, I know," she soothes. "I told him you were available for an _office_ meeting next Tuesday. Poor fool wants to be on you so bad."

"Care!" I say, reaching out to smack her leg, but she dodges me.

"_Elena_," she mocks, smiling mischievously.

I throw her one last sarcastic glare before lowering my eyes to glance quickly over the list. "Looks great, Care, thank you."

I scan the list, but in my peripheral vision I can see her foot bouncing up and down impatiently.

I smile.

"It all looks pretty self-explanatory from here," I say, a little too casually, looking up. Caroline is barely concealing the gigantic grin threatening to break out across her face, and her whole body looks tense, like it will literally burst if I don't ask her about her wedding very soon.

I decide to be kind and put her out of her misery.

"So…"

Before I can even utter another word, Caroline is gushing a string of them out on the breath she was holding. "The invitations arrived yesterday evening and _oh my Goooood Elena_ you won't even believe your _eyes_ they are _so_ incredibly gorgeous I can't wait for _everyone_ to get them!" She flashes me a bright smile before reaching into the back of her planner to pull out a pristine white envelope. I actually brought you yours today," she says, handing it to me proudly. "Can't have my Maid of Honor falling out of the loop…"

I grin wide at the excitement on her face and then carefully pull the invitation from its thick, gold-lined casing.

Inside is a fine-grained yet tastefully simple piece of substantial white cardstock. There is a lovely silhouette of a tree in a buttery champagne color and the intricate calligraphy font overlaying it is embossed deeply into the thick paper, giving it an almost three-dimensional effect. All of the writing is in black except for the names of the hosts of the wedding and the names of the bride and groom, which are a delicate gold:

Giuseppe Salvatore and Elizabeth Forbes

Invite you to celebrate in the marriage of their children

Caroline Forbes and Stefan Salvatore

Saturday, the 14th of May

Two thousand and fourteen

At six o'clock in the evening

The Palm House

Brooklyn Botanic Garden

Brooklyn New York

There is a tiny gold butterfly perched on the final looping flourish of Caroline's name.

It is hands down the most exquisite thing disguising itself as paper that I have ever seen.

I feel a pang of something sweet and lovely squeeze my heart and an ache behind my eyes. I am so incredibly happy for her.

"This is beautiful, Caroline," I say honestly, swallowing against the emotion tightening my throat, testing the pleasant weight of the cardstock in my hand.

"I know, right?" she says, clapping her hands excitedly. She exhales a deep breath and flops back into her chair. "I just can't believe it's actually happening," she says, her eyes far away and her voice hushed with awe. "All this planning and plotting and waiting…" she trails off. "And _Stefan_," she sighs, her face lit up with a lovesick grin as she snuggles further back into the velvet. "I _can't wait _Elena," she says, looking at me with an almost pained expression of joy. "I just can't wait to be his wife."

She is beaming at me, and I can't help but beam back at her.

I met Stefan at the coffee cart about a year ago. He is a very handsome man, and we exchanged numbers. At the time, I couldn't help but find myself attracted to the mystery of his lovely green eyes, his square jaw and light brown hair, the unwavering focus of his attention. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only girl in the room.

But after a few dates where the conversation came easier than the chemistry, we agreed that we were happier just being friends.

And then I brought him to meet up with Caroline at our usual post-work dinner and drinks spot, The Square, one Friday night.

As they say—the rest is history.

In retrospect, I should have known my two best friends would be perfect for each other. Caroline's bubbly personality and fun-loving attitude towards life proved to be the perfect antidote to Stefan's brooding intensity, and Stefan's patient compassion was the perfect salve for some of Caroline's more compulsive tendencies.

Their connection was so easy and pure, inevitable as a happy ending in their very own live-action rom-com. It was clearly only a matter of time before they ended up walking down an aisle somewhere. But it was lovely to watch their dating and courtship unfold, so new and exciting to them and such a foregone conclusion to anyone who saw them together.

I reach across the small space between us to squeeze her leg. "I could not be more happy for you, Caroline," I say, because it's true.

"Thanks, Elena," she says, and grabs my hand.

We just smile at each other, both our eyes bright with unshed tears.

I squeeze lightly and blink a few times before I pull my hand away, sighing reluctantly as I stand up. "So do you want me to come by this weekend and help you stuff and stamp them?" I ask, walking to my desk and propping my invitation up against my desk lamp where I will be able to admire it throughout my day.

When I glance up again she is standing up and smoothing her skirt out, looking fidgety and guilty.

I gasp. "Caroline! You didn't!"

"Ummm…" she starts, shuffling her feet.

"Oh my goodness, Caroline!" I exclaim. "You stuffed and stamped 400 invitations all by yourself? Are you crazy?!"

"Well, I just thought I'd start in on it, and then…I got kind of carried away." She shrugs sheepishly. "You know how I get with an unfinished task. I just can't leave it alone. I should have known that before I started," she says with a furrowed brow, all self-deprecating contrition. I want to hug her. She is so adorable when she underestimates her own neuroses.

"So I guess you had a pretty late night last night then," I say with a smile. I half-lean, half-sit on the front edge of my desk that opens to the rest of the room, crossing my arms and lifting my eyebrows in mock disapproval. "And just how late were you up, might I ask?"

She narrows her eyes and wags her finger accusingly at me as she stalks forward. "Well I should ask _you_ the same thing, little miss stack-o-'scripts. Don't think I've missed how many manuscripts you've been carting in and out of here everyday. Or how distracted and forgetful you've been lately."

_Oops._

Her whole demeanor switches from playful censure to concern as she reaches a hand out, squeezing my arm before running it down to wrap my hand in a light but insistent grip.

"Are they happening again, Elena? The nightmares?" She searches my face for the answer, but she already knows. "You know I want you to call me right? It doesn't matter what time of night. You're my _best friend_, Elena. I don't want you going through that…yuckiness…alone."

"I know, Care," I say, forcing a light smile onto my lips and squeezing her hand back. "If it ever gets too bad, I know I can call you."

She is not fooled by my creative wording. "I want you to, okay? Not just when it gets 'too bad.' Just call me, will you?"

She squeezes my hand tightly one more time before releasing it.

"Don't make me start calling you in the wee hours just to double check you aren't in the middle of one," she says, slapping my shoulder and giving me a pointed look before crossing to the pulley system that controls my blinds.

"I'm watching you Gilbert," she glares playfully at me, pointing to her eyes with two fingers and then turning the little vee toward mine.

"Noted, Forbes," I say, pasting on the most natural smile I can muster. She finishes with the blinds and moves to exit my office.

She turns back with her hand on the door handle. Her planner is pressed up against her chest again, a sure sign that the beginnings of business-mode are starting to overtake her again. "We're still on for meeting up with Stefan at the Square later?"

"Of course!" I say, hoping she doesn't catch the slightly forced edge to my too-eager response. "Is it Friday, or is it Friday?" I smirk, recovering.

She grins easily at me and shuts the door behind her with a wink, letting me off the hook.

I stand up and start moving around my desk. I wait until she is seated at her own and engrossed in a phone conversation, less likely to see me from her spot on the other side of glass, partially obscured by my door.

I slouch into my chair and finally rest my weary head into my hands.

She knows.

And God love her, she's just not capable of dropping a scent once she's gotten wind of it.

Somehow, her knowing—my singular support system through all of this-makes it more real. It won't be long before I'll have to fess up, and admitting it out loud means that it wasn't just a fluke—or two. It means that they are actually happening.

The nightmares are back.

And where there are nightmares, there are the attacks.

I sigh heavily and pick up the phone, dropping it on the cradle again when I notice my shaking hands. I squeeze my eyes closed and curl my fingernails tightly into my palms.

"Deep breaths," I say out loud, willing my body to obey.

And for now, thank God, it does.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hey folks. So this is happening. My very first fic. I've been a long-time reader of fanfiction, but I've never been inspired to write one. Until one day when a scene from this story popped in my head and wouldn't stop torturing me till I wrote it down. And then two more popped up and I wrote those too. And with the help of my magnificent, stupendous, fantastical, incredible beta, Trogdor19, my amateur writing skills and hazy ideas became a fully fleshed out story. She is literally the only reason any of this is worth reading. If you love __fanfiction, Delena, Steroline, and just AWESOMENESS period, you MUST check out everything she has ever written. And RUN DON'T WALK to Amazon to purchase her Delena story, Desperate Love. _

_Trogdor19, there aren't enough skittle-tear-producing magical-lightsaber-weilding ice-pack-hat-wearing rainbow unicorns in the world to thank you for everything that you have done for me and for this fic. So just...thank you._

_I hope you like this story, and if you do, PLEASE put me out of my misery and comment/PM me because I will be hiding under my covers wondering why I did this until you lovely people tell me it doesn't suck!_

___I've got the first 5 chapters written so click Follow (and maybe Favorite? Okay maybe it's a little early in the relationship. Maybe soon though?)__ so you don't miss the excitement and Delena hotness to come!_

_Xoxo, NightLight_

___PS. Thanks to Arabean for the cover shot icon!_


	2. Ch 2 - The Square and the Nightmare

**Chapter 2: The Square and the Nightmare**

The Square is jumping, as usual.

It occupies a large corner lot at 20th and Park Avenue at the southeastern boundary of Manhattan's famous Flatiron district, otherwise known as foodie-heaven. Luckily for me, it is also home to or within close range of many of the major publishing houses and literary agencies based in the city—including mine—and Caroline and my apartment buildings are both within walking distance.

As it happens, The Square is the center of our urban universe and I wouldn't change a thing about it.

This is the 30-something professionals' preferred watering hole, loud and raucous and casual, where weary weekday warriors' ties are loose and top buttons are undone. The layout of the restaurant was designed after its namesake, so that when you walk in through the wide double doors you feel like you are indeed entering at the tip of a square. The two far walls are lined with one continuous bar, behind which shiny bottles on glass shelves stretch all the way up to the ceiling. The Square boasts a wide array of some of the most unique and high quality spirits available in the entire city, as well as the most impressive selection of imported beers on tap you have ever had the pleasure of attempting to taste your way through.

But the real kicker is the food. Parmesan crusted asparagus fries with buttermilk Ranch dressing. Cherry tomato, pancetta, and melted buffalo mozzarella flat-bread drizzled with their house marinated basil-infused olive oil. Arugula and roasted beet salad with balsamic dressing and whipped goat cheese.

My mouth waters at the mere mention of that salad. I hate being one of those obnoxious girls who always orders the salad, but I challenge all who stand in judgment to have just one cool, crispy, bitter-sweet creamy bite and then decide whether to cast that stone.

The dining area is a large recessed square that fills the middle of the space. Long white tablecloths, sleek stainless steel salt and pepper shakers and a single white candle in a square glass sit atop every table. There are spacious booths at the three corners that aren't occupied by the entry stairs, along with two smaller booths on each of the four sides.

Caroline and I scan the tables looking for Stefan. He always manages to get off a little earlier on Fridays so it's been left within his charge to save us a seat if there happens to be one available. Most of the time we get pretty lucky.

I hear rather than see when he's been spotted because Caroline squeals loudly a little too close to my ear and starts making a beeline for the far booth on the right hand side. I follow closely behind.

Stefan rises when he sees us, prying his eyes off of Caroline just long enough to wave and flash me a wide smile before all of his attention is focused on his fiancé. I watch as she throws her arms around his neck, forcing him to lean back to support her weight as he wraps his arms around her, her toes lifting off the ground. Her whole body is pressed against his like it's been years rather than hours since they last saw each other. I can't help but chuckle to myself.

"Hi Stefan," I say to his face peeking over her shoulder.

"Hey, Elena," he says, attempting to look good-naturedly put out with a light roll of his eyes before promptly betraying himself by burying his face into the crook of her neck, nuzzling closer to her skin in spite of the perfectly coifed blond waves in his way. He holds her close for a long moment before gently setting her back on her feet.

Caroline pulls her head back to plant a long kiss on his lips before slowly peeling herself away.

"Hi, babe," she breathes.

"Hi yourself," he says, brushing stray hair from her face and giving her that look that makes me wonder if I need hail them a taxi.

I plop down in one of the chairs on the other side of the table from the booth, knowing it's pointless to do anything but wait them out. They must have seen me sit, because a few moments later they slide into the booth across from me. Caroline smoothes her hair as she settles in.

"Thanks for saving us a table, Stefan," I say.

"It's what I do," he says with a shrug, trying to look casual, but his face is still flushed.

The waitress comes to take our drink orders. A lemon drop martini for me, a green apple martini for Caroline and a second beer for Stefan, his favorite Belgian import.

Stefan is a man who takes his beer very seriously, but it's hard to imagine a beer named "Pliny the Elder" was meant to be enjoyed with anything other than a laugh and a cheers.

"So how was work today, ladies?" Stefan asks as he leans back and slips an arm around Caroline.

She nods my way so I jump in. "It was pretty great actually. Klaus scheduled a mystery-meeting with me and then promptly cancelled it. And really any excuse to avoid extra face-time with the boss-man is a victory."

"Hear, hear," Caroline interjects.

"Oh, and not to toot my own horn or anything, but I did kind of avert a major disaster today over that Lannister novel I was telling you about? Anyways, the guy does not seem to understand the meaning of a deadline and his publishing house has been all up in my business about to blow a gasket over it. So I came up with this idea about a pre-order marketing campaign to help take advantage of the extra time until the book comes out, and they totally bought it! It's actually going to be great for the book so it's a win, win." I say, brushing my knuckles over my shoulders and blowing air over them while Caroline laughs and rolls her eyes at me.

"Nice Elena!" Stefan exclaims. "Your penchant for creative problem solving is a wonder to behold." He dips his head in a mock Victorian bow, complete with the flourishing hand motions.

"Thank you, thank you," I say, returning his genuflection with an exaggerated nod.

"Oh and get this, babe," Caroline jumps in. "The author is this really weird eccentric-type guy, right Elena?"

"Yeah, with this crazy beard that's all wiry and unkempt, and he's always wearing these funny-looking fisherman caps…"

"Yeah, with these big glasses with 70's style frames."

"Wow," Stefan says. "I'm envisioning, like, Santa Claus on a fishing boat with a disco jumpsuit…"

I start giggling at this utterly absurd vision but Caroline soldiers on.

"Anyways, he's always telling Elena that 'true artistry can't be rushed' and snobby BS like that. _But then_ he's posting all over his blog site about these tiny little ships in glass bottles he's spending all his time building!" Now Stefan is laughing along with me. "What a weirdo," Caroline opines, looking more perplexed than judgmental. "God forbid anybody at his publishing house sees it."

"Really?" Stefan says, scrubbing a hand over his forehead with a grin. "I've honestly always wondered how people find the patience to do that. Looks very tedious."

"Says the lawyer," I interject.

"Hahaha," Stefan says dryly, and I poke my tongue out at him playfully.

The waitress arrives with our drinks and takes our dinner orders, which we all rattle off by rote. We raise our glasses and cheers to the end of the workweek before taking our first delectable sips.

"Oh, and your invitations arrived!" I remember as I set my drink down on the table. "So what do you think Stefan? Are they everything you ever dreamed your wedding invitations would be?" I ask, batting my eyelashes dreamily. Caroline slaps my shoulder and I chuckle along with Stefan.

"As always, I think Caroline has impeccable taste and did an amazing job choosing them. I think they're perfectly representative of us and of our wedding." Stefan says, neutralizing Caroline's mild annoyance with ease. I roll my eyes at his easy knack for diplomacy—he always ruins my Caroline-teasing fun. He works at his father's massive malpractice firm, Salvatore, Davis & McAvoy. Even though he's not a litigator, there's just something about the way he _sees_ a situation that makes him good at manipulating things to achieve a desired result. There must be a lawyer gene or something that got passed down from his father.

"Oh! Speaking of the wedding!" Caroline says, leaning over the table toward me.

"It's time to get crackin' on the wedding shower," she says seriously.

"I know Caroline, I told you! I already tried talking to your step mom, Stefan, but she is pretty much not letting me actually do anything. And it's not like I can just barge in on her plans and take over. I've never even met her and it's going to be at her house, after all."

"She's just happy for us." Stefan says. "She isn't getting a say in anything having to do with the wedding itself." He shoots a pointed look at his fiancé, who shrugs unapologetically. "So she's probably just funneling all of her planning energy into the shower."

"I seriously don't know what to do, Caroline," I say, my hands up in surrender. "She is a charming but I must say intimidating woman. I made it clear it was supposed to be a co-ed evening affair with no games," Caroline shivers at the mere mention of the word, "and she just sort of took off with it from there. Open bar, twinkle lights, candles floating in the pool, catered hors d'oeuvres, the whole nine. That's all I got out of her before she flitted off the phone and stopped returning my calls."

"Just like one of her fundraisers," Stefan says, rolling his eyes.

"Those fundraisers are _lovely_," Caroline defends, "but they lack the personal flair you'd expect from a shower." Her brow is furrowed in concentration before her whole face turns on like a light bulb.

"What about Damon? As the Best Man, he's supposed to be helping plan this thing too, and he knows Francesca well enough to hold his ground around her. Maybe you two should meet up to talk about what you want to do, and Damon can pass it on in a way that…_encourages_ her to be more of a team player."

Damon is Stefan's brother. From what I understand, he's sort of the black sheep of the family because of his father's disapproval of his choice not to enter the family business. But I know he attends family dinners at the Salvatore mansion along with Stefan and Caroline most every Sunday night, so I guess the estrangement can't be that bad.

I also know he lost his wife a few years ago in a car accident and that ever since, he's been sort of a recluse. I somehow doubt he'll be all that excited to help with the wedding planning.

"Good luck getting him to come out," Stefan says. "He only ever hangs out with that psychiatrist friend of his with the weird name since Katherine died."

"Well I don't blame him for needing some time," Caroline says firmly, "but he's gotta join the fray sometime and this might be the perfect opportunity to draw him out. And then you'll finally get to meet him, Elena!" she says excitedly. "My family circle won't be complete until you two know each other," Caroline insists.

The waitress arrives with our food. Chilean sea bass with wilted tomatoes and spinach, kalamata olives and capers in a white wine sauce for Caroline. Steak Frites for Stefan, the thyme and truffle-oil covered fries sticking straight up out of a parchment-lined stainless steel cup.

And my glorious salad—mine, all mine.

I couldn't resist the asparagus fries this time as well. Even though they are piping hot, I go for them first, dipping one steaming, perfectly-breaded stalk into the creamy buttermilk dressing and biting even though it burns my teeth and I have to hiss out of a half-opened mouth as I chew to keep it from burning my tongue.

I am grateful for the silence that descends over the table as we dive into our food. Caroline has been trying to introduce Damon and me for a long time, but not really under the circumstances she's implying. She's wanted me to see Damon about my attacks for months.

I think the subject is dropped, but then Caroline pipes up.

"It's decided then," She says, wiping at her lips with the black napkin she's pulled from her lap. "I'll put you and Damon in touch and you guys can go from there."

Her look doesn't leave any room for objection. And why would I? He's the current and future brother of my best friends, after all.

And he's a therapist_._

Will he see through me? Will he be able to tell, just by looking at me?

I eat and smile and laugh, but my mind strays.

_A therapist._

He will know.

###

When I arrive home, I feel full and happy and just a little bit drowsy from the second martini I indulged in. I kick my stilettos off my aching feet by the door and drop my bag. It is heavy with the heap of manuscripts I managed to stuff inside of it before leaving the office today—I didn't want to tip Caroline off any more than I already had by carrying them in my arms.

I know it would be much easier to send them to myself digitally and read them on my iPad like everybody else in the 21st century, but I can't give up the feeling of the actual paper in my hand, the rustling sound of the sheets as they turn, the little ache you feel in your chest when you are running out of pages on a really good book that you don't want to end. It is a ritual, sacred and soothing, that I've been enjoying for as long as I can remember. It reminds me of my childhood, tethers me to a place and time when I still had everything and everyone I loved.

Before I was left alone.

I flick on the light, wincing a little bit as my eyes struggle to adjust to the bright light.

My apartment is quiet and tidy and though it always greets me silently, I know it misses me when I'm gone. Medium-brown hardwood floors stretch to a brick wall with big windows that are always shining welcomingly with either sunrays or city lights. A cozy white shag rug covers most of the floor of the living room, with a deep-seated dove-grey couch with lots of fluffy pillows in various textures of white and cream waiting invitingly on top of it.

The dark wooden lounger with white seat cushions and a carved Moroccan-style inlay on either side is my favorite piece of furniture that I own. I just happened to score it from somebody who was moving out of an apartment in my building as I was moving in. It angles toward the worn wooden coffee table, which is only piece of furniture I brought with me from my childhood home.

Across from the couch on the wall that separates the living room from the spare bedroom behind it there is another brick wall with a little fireplace in it and a large flat-screen TV mounted above it. On either side of the fireplace are bookshelves that go from the floor to the ceiling. Though the bottom two shelves are devoted to all of my favorite DVD's, every other square inch is overloaded with books.

Mismatched art is hung here and there, contributing to the eclectic vibe I seem to have settled into. Some are thrift store finds, some are gifts.

There is a black and white drawing of a horse that hung above my bed up until I moved out of my parents' home. I've always hated it, but somehow whenever it comes down to it, I just can't bring myself to let it go.

When I got the apartment, I had toyed with the idea of getting a roommate, but in truth I didn't really need one. Sure, sometimes I think it would be nice to have somebody else in the house, but then the attacks start up again, and I realize that I'd be asking an awful lot of that person just by their being here.

I know that anybody who lives with me also lives with the memory of what happened to me.

I switch off the light once more and bend down to pull the manuscripts from my bag along with my phone, hauling the heavy load into my arms as I pad off past my living room and into the hallway, my aching feet soothed by the cool floor. I veer left into my bedroom, where the sight of my white sheets and soft duvet make me sigh in spite of myself. I drop the manuscripts and my phone on my nightstand and flick the bedside lamp on before I head to my bathroom, shedding clothes as I go.

After I've washed my face and brushed my teeth, I walk to my bedroom window and stretch as I look out at my view, obstructed as most in this city are by the building next to mine. But there is life and a sort of vibrancy to everything here that makes all of it beautiful to me. The history in the bricks that make up each building. The twinkling of streetlights and headlights as they streak by. The cacophonous symphony of cars honking and engines running and voices calling to each other and businesses shutting down and delivery trucks pulling in.

I pull on my flannel pajama shorts and camisole, taking two aspirin with a tall glass of water before slipping into bed, just in case the alcohol catches up to me. I feel so tired—maybe I can forgo reading tonight and actually get a little sleep.

I slide in between my sheets and groan aloud at the glorious feeling. My bed is far too comfortable for my own good. I flip off my bedside lamp and snuggle into my pillow. Sleep overtakes me before I even remember to shut the window.

_The sun is beating in on me, burning my leg and my arm as it rests against the window despite the air conditioner blasting the rest of the car into comfortable coolness. I look out at the forest that hugs the street on the way out of our town. I'm looking forward to lounging by the lake, catching up on some reading and deepening my tan. Mom said she'd make lemon bars tonight 'cause she knows they're my favorite and I can't wait._

_ The sounds of Van Morrison's Brown-Eyed Girl starts up low on the radio, and when I recognize the song and look up at Dad, I see him looking for me in the rearview mirror. He smiles wide when he sees me grinning at him. _You're my brown-eyed girl_. This is our song. But I think it's his and Mom's song too because I see Mom looking at him and when he catches her looking he smiles, that special smile that he saves just for her. _

_ Jeremy is looking out the window, oblivious to the song or the looks or whatever else is going on in the car. He's just staring out over the river, the rickety wooden barrier of the bridge whizzing by even as the water that stretches out from below us appears unhurried, placid and peaceful in the bright summer sun. He's probably thinking about Vicky. He's had a thing for his best friend Matt's sister as long as he's known her. Gross. I don't even want to think about that._

_I notice he is wearing my earbuds. Ugh, I hate it when he gets his grubby earwax all over them. I unbuckle my seatbelt and reach over to grab them from his ears._

_"You weren't even using them, 'Lena, gimme a break!" he snaps back._

_The loud sounds of rock music blasting from the earbuds clashes with the radio._

_La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lala-lala_

_La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lala-lala, la di da_

_It's so loud I don't know how he hasn't blown his eardrums out by now. I open my mouth to tell him so when I hear my Dad take in a sudden sharp breath and yell "whoa whoa WHOA!"_

_Something heavy drops in my gut, an iron fist squeezing my heart._

_We hit the divider. Wood splinters and I feel my body jerk hard against the seat as we break through the barrier between us and the sky. I register a horrible hollow thunk against the window where Jer is sitting and it turns my already flipping stomach but I don't have time to look or check up on him because the blue sky and scenery we were sailing toward is suddenly water, and I realize we are going to nosedive straight into it. I hear Mom scream and I start to scream too but them we hit the water and I'm thrown back and my head hits the roof of the car because I'm not wearing my seatbelt. God almighty I am not wearing my seatbelt and we just crashed and oh my God the car is filling up with water. We are sinking and then hit the shallow bottom but the car is filling up with water and the door won't open ohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod help me oh my God please help me. _

_"Dad!" I scream. "Dad the door won't open!" _

_Silence. _

_"Mom?" _

_Silence._

_I look at Jer and his head is covered in blood._

_I look away quickly because I am a coward and I don't want to see._

_I am alone._

_Panic fills me from the bottom up, starting in my toes and creeping up into my throat like the water, rising in the car where I am going to die. Where I am going to drown because the door won't open and everyone is quiet and I'm all alone._

_I scream, but the sound is so loud in the car it just scares me even more and there is no response from the lifeless bodies of the people I love and nothing but water to hear me._

_I don't want to die. I don't want to die alone._

_I think of my Mom. Her laugh and her soft hands and the way she smells like fresh laundry and vanilla when I come home from school. My Dad and his crinkly-eyed smile, the feel of his strong arms around me, the way his voice gets gravelly when he tells me how much he loves me. _

_I want their soft hands and their strong arms and their voices to make me feel better, to hold me and comfort me before I die. Just one more time before it is all gone forever._

_I am pounding on the glass of the windows with my elbows, my fists, putting as much force behind my blows as my body can build in the small space. _

_Nothing happens._

_The glass is stone._

_I feel my body starting to rise. I angle myself so I can kick at the glass with my heel. Nothing happens. The water is so high that I am lifting off of the seat. Their heads are covered to their mouths, their noses. Their eyebrows. My head hits the ceiling. I gasp into the space where the last of the oxygen is, filled with the terrible knowledge that I am only postponing the inevitable. That soon the water will cover my mouth and nose and eyes and eyebrows too and it will be over. Oh my God I'm going to drown. I don't even get to be asleep when I die like everybody else. I have to drown all alone._

_The water rises. _

_ I want to scream, but I hold my breath instead._

_There is no air left. Only water._

_My lungs burn as I continue to pound against the glass, knowing it will do nothing but unable to stop._

_We are all going to die. Oh my God we are all going to die._

I wake up soaked in sweat and gasping for air.

_I don't want to die alone._

* * *

_Author's Note: I just need to take this moment to say...Holy hell. Your response to this fic exceeded my wildest hopes and dreams and expectations and fantasies. THANK YOU to each and every one of you who took the time to review, and to all of you who clicked follow and favorite, because you SERIOUSLY made my entire week. No lie._

_click follow/favorite so you don't miss out on any of the Delena hotness, Steroline sweetness, and even Jennric (Jalaric? Anyone know?) cuteness coming up!_

_And there might be a certain black haired, blue eyed hottie making an appearance in the next chapter, just sayin'. ;)_

_And please leave me a comment if you can! I'm a beginner writer so every little bit of encouragement helps!_

_Xoxo, NightLight_

_PS. As always, immeasurable thanks to my beta, Trogdor19. A thousand hand-whittled pieces of hyphenated furniture stacked in hundreds of three-bedroom-home sized warehouses worth of thanks to you. Xoxo_


	3. Ch 3 - The Meltdown and the Meet Cute

**Chapter 3 - The Meltdown and the Meet Cute **

_Ding._

Monday.

The elevator doors slide open, but I can barely find the will to step through them. The cool mirrored wall I am currently leaning against soothes my throbbing temple. I register the side rail digging into my hip, the hot double-shot latte burning my fingers, but nothing can be done. My body weighs a thousand pounds, and the price of moving it is higher than the price of the pain.

How am I going to get through this?

When the metal panels starts to close I throw my foot out automatically, instinct momentarily overriding exhaustion.

And then I am finally stepping into my office foyer to face another day.

I barely slept a wink all weekend. How could I fall asleep when I knew what might be waiting for me?

Their faces haunted my waking hours, the sight of rising water always behind my eyelids. Death, daring me to sleep, beckoning me from the other side of consciousness—vowing that though I cheated it, I'll never be free to live.

My family. All of them dead, just like that. Everyone but me.

I'll never be safe. Not ever again.

A tiny splash of coffee drips onto my hand and I realize I am shaking.

Not now, Gilbert. You're already out of the elevator.

"Elena?" Caroline is through the double doors, but her usually chipper greeting is replaced by a look of barely concealed horror. She approaches me cautiously, like I might spontaneously combust or crumble to pieces if she gets too close too fast.

There was never going to be enough concealer and caffeine in the world to rescue me from this.

"Oh my God you look horrible," she breathes without a hint of malice, sliding my overstuffed bag off of my forearm like I'm made of eggshell-thin china.

"Caroline, I…" But my voice breaks over the sudden emotion aching in my throat and I trail off. There is nothing to say that she doesn't already know.

She nods as though having decided something and takes my arm, leading me into my office like a child. She shuts the door and draws the blinds.

"Lay down Elena," she says, her voice firm but kind. "I'll cover for you for the next hour or so and wake you in time for the check-in this morning."

I don't even have the energy to fight her. I just kick off my shoes and do as she says, curling onto my side on the leather and letting her take my coffee from my hands.

"Try to get some rest, okay?" she says, her voice gentler. Worry is laced through every syllable. I feel her lips press against my forehead. "Let's just get you through this morning's meeting and go from there."

But I am already halfway unconscious, lulled by the blessed unfamiliarity of leather against my cheek, the sounds of the office humming outside my door.

I vaguely hear the click of the door before I'm gone.

###

There is something tickling my forehead. I try to slap it away, but it comes back.

"Elena? Elena?"

It's Caroline's voice.

My eyelashes flutter and then close tightly against the harsh light assaulting my retinas. I swallow against the sour taste of stale coffee.

"Uuuunnnggghhhh." I moan, and I sound like something half-dead.

"Eleeeenaaaa," she singsongs. "Wake up, sweetie. I come bearing gifts." I pry my eyelids open, my vision narrowed through squinted eyes, and manage to make out a bran muffin. Steaming fresh coffee. My stomach growls noisily at the sight, and I force myself to sit up.

When I finally do, I see the concern knitted into Caroline's brow and a wave of gut-churning guilt and failure washes over me.

I've tried so hard to handle this on my own, but no matter what I do, I _just can't_. Somehow, the people I love always get dragged into it one way or another.

Will I ever be able to just be a friend to someone instead of a burden?

I reach my unsteady hands out to take the refreshments. Unsettled or not, I am ravenous, the space beneath my ribs feeling hollow and cavernous. I bite into the muffin without even peeling back the paper.

"Thank you, Caroline," I mumble through the mouthful.

She leans forward from her perch on the coffee table, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

"I am coming over later and we are going to talk about this," she promises me in a tone that makes it clear there is no room for argument. "But in the meantime, I got the check-in meeting pushed back a half-hour so you could have a little extra time to wake up."

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. I know how much she hates asking Klaus for favors.

"You lucked out," she says pointedly, the accusatory finger absent but clearly implied. "Really it's Rose you should thank. She told me he was having a busy morning and that she could stall him for me."

I swallow my too-big bite, washing it down with a swig of coffee.

"Thank you so much, Caroline."

"No problem, Elena. Easy-peasy," she says, giving my knee an affectionate squeeze before she stands. She smoothes her skirt and heads for the exit.

She pauses at the door.

"You have 20 minutes until the meeting. I think afterwards, you should go home and try to get some rest." My heart squeezes anxiously in my chest, but she doesn't miss a beat.

"If you need to go to my place, that's fine too. I'll just meet you there after work." I breathe a quiet sigh, feeling tears of relief jump to my over-tired eyes.

"I can push everything till later in the week. And nobody is going to argue with you going home after they get a load of you," she says, motioning to my general form. I'd be insulted if I didn't know it was the truth.

If I didn't see the teasing glint in her eye.

I smile back at her. "Fair enough," I say. She winks at me and starts to step out of my office.

"Caroline?" I call after her.

"Yeah?" she says, peeking her head back in.

"Thank you again, Caroline. I don't know what I'd do without you."

She smiles. For a moment she looks like she is going to say something, but then she stops herself. "Anytime," she says instead, and slips through the door.

Anytime.

I know she wishes I would take her up on it.

Maybe I should have.

I eat the rest of my muffin in silence.

###

"Alright, people. Let's start the week off properly now, shall we?" Klaus claps and rubs his hands together energetically. I sit, trying to look as alert as possible although I feel anything but. The coffee and muffin definitely went a long way toward reviving me, but not far enough that I'd pass for anything above barely functional.

My notes are resting on the glass conference table before me. Thank God I like to get my thoughts organized on the weekend, rather than cramming during the hour before the meeting each Monday like most of the other agents do.

I sit patiently through each agent's informal presentation of their latest projects and upcoming points of interest, fantasizing about Caroline's bed and stifling yawns with as much discretion as I can manage.

I combat the sleepiness by listening as closely as possible to what my colleagues are saying, trying to force my way through the fogginess clouding my brain.

The work we do here at Michaelson Literary Management is so individualistic in nature, it would be easy to feel out of touch and isolated. But these weekly check-ins do a good job of fostering a sense of unity and shared responsibility. Ownership over the well-being of the company as a whole.

I have no doubt that that is exactly the purpose they were meant to serve. Klaus is no dummy, and he rarely makes a move without plotting ten steps ahead. His calculated business savvy and shrewd unpredictability make him intimidating—sometimes downright fearsome. He is easy to rally behind, to respect if not to love.

"Elena?"

I come out of my thoughts with a start.

And what about you, Elena?" Klaus says again. Something about his tone sets me on edge. I curl my fingers tighter.

"Ah…oh, well…okay," I stammer, flustering, scanning my notes for where to start.

"Okay," I say, taking a quick re-focusing breath and soothing my hands down my skirt. "Everything is pretty smooth sailing this week." I clear my throat. "I renegotiated a missed deadline with Turner/Grant. I structured a new contract and schedule with Waxman & Dean to account for the new dates they wanted to add to Taylor Kay's "Bitten" tour. All my in-process drafts are shaping up nicely and the authors are on pace for their deadlines."

I clear my throat.

"I also have some promising new talent I'm looking into developing. I've been spending a lot of time reading and sifting through new manuscripts, new authors, and I think I've stumbled across some really great raw material. Stuff that could be really big."

I lift my chin, trying to appear as confident and capable as possible.

"Klaus, I know you and I talked briefly about that new Manny Nanny manuscript I've been really excited about." I turn from Klaus and address the room. "I came across a draft a few weeks back from a brand new author, a man who has spent years as a professional Nanny to the rich and even the occasional famous, though he doesn't name names. There's some autobiographical elements to it, but it's primarily a self-help book. He's got lots of really unique ideas about raising children from a man's perspective. And he's super marketable. I'm envisioning a kind of male Mary Poppins angle…got to work out the details on that. At any rate, it's some really fresh material. I am planning on meeting with the author this week if I can, hoping to get him under contract and then dig in to refining his work for the big leagues. My instincts tell me he's gonna be huge…a great addition to our client roster. If all goes well, I could be shopping it within the next few months."

I finish with a deep breath and force my most natural smile. I chance a look at Klaus, but his expression is unreadable. His hands are steepled in front of his mouth, the same mask of relaxed attendance he afforded each of my fellow agents covering his face.

The rest of the room is filled with smiles and nods, and my returning grin comes easier now.

_I made it through_.

I take a seat.

But then he speaks.

"Well done as always, Elena. I'm actually quite glad you brought up that new manuscript. I very much regret that we missed our chance to discuss it privately last Friday." He rises to standing, pressing his long fingers into the table.

I swallow hard, a ball of foreboding forming in my stomach.

He looks at me directly. He is suddenly very imposing, towering over me from where I sit, just a chair removed.

"It seems this manuscript is something you envision being well-received at some of the highest-level publishing houses."

My mouth goes dry and my fingernails bite into my palms.

_No way he would do this now, with everyone here. _

Would he?

"It seems, per your description last week when we first discussed it, that it is best suited to placement with a vehicle well-versed in the self-help genre. With the promotional mechanism already in place to bring this author's unique material to the masses as seamlessly and effectively as possible."

A sickening swirl of dread and disbelief rises, raw and heavy in my throat. I try to tamp it down before I choke on it.

"I'd hate to sell this amazing new talent short. He deserves a fair shot at getting picked up by the house with the best record and highest likelihood of catapulting him into the stratosphere where you yourself say he without a doubt belongs."

I try to form words, but I can't. I can't think of a single one. Blood is rushing loud in my ears, my heart thundering in my chest as realization dawns.

This was a calculated move. He cancelled that meeting Friday because he knew I'd fight for it. Because he knew he could corner me today in front of everyone.

Klaus Michaelson is a fucking coward.

"Susanna, why don't you take a look at the manuscript with Elena this week, and you two can discuss the best way to move forward. I'll have Caroline send you a copy so you can get a head start before she officially passes it off."

Just like that.

"Alright then team, well done," he says, giving a brisk clap by way of ending the meeting. "Looking forward to another great week. Now get to work." He flashes one of his trademark charmers.

I want to cut those dimples off his face with a spoon.

He strides calmly from the room, not sparing me or anyone else so much as a backward glance.

I sit, stunned and frozen in my chair, trying to inhale and exhale calmly even though I feel like I am choking on the air I'm attempting to breath. I get a lot of pitying looks as people file out, a few even mouth "I'm sorry" or squeeze my arm sympathetically as they pass by.

Susanna at least has the decency to flee the scene as fast as she can. It's not her fault of course, but I want to strangle her anyway.

That was _my_ manuscript. _My_ discovery. _Mine_.

I am the last person in the conference room.

I stand up jerkily. Now it's not just my hands. My whole body is trembling, and I feel the unsteadiness echoing in my chest cavity, rattling me to my core. I tighten my fists at my sides, my whole body going rigid as I try to settle.

But I can't. I am absolutely furious. I have a wild fantasy of stomping into Klaus's office and demanding that he give it back. But I'll never do it. He knows it too. I've already been humiliated in front of my co-workers, I won't make a bigger fool out of myself by making a scene.

How could he do this to me? I'm the best he's got. The best.

I hide my face with my hands, fighting tears. My unbearable fatigue makes every emotion stinging-sharp.

This was more than a manuscript to me. It was a chance to make things right with Sharon White of BigLittle. It was a chance to bring her something so good that she wouldn't be able to refuse. So irresistible that she would be forced to work with me, forced to give me another chance to prove myself to her.

I gather up my notepad and exit the conference room on unsteady legs.

Anger burns hot and bright in my chest. I turn in the direction of my office, and hear a choked gasp from somewhere close by.

And then I realize it was me.

Invisible fists clench my heart. A feeling like ice creeps from the base of my spine to my scalp.

The burning isn't anger.

It's my lungs.

I feel adrenaline spike in my bloodstream as it dawns on me what is happening. Galloping heart rate. Not enough oxygen. Uncontrollable shaking.

_No. Not again._

I pick up the pace, looking for cover while the panic courses through me, spreading through my body like black paint in clear water. I bypass my office and Caroline's desk, turning instead down the hallway that leads to the restroom.

I am running now. I rip the door out of my way. The bathroom is blessedly empty. I make a beeline for the sink but when I get there, terror clutches my heart with both hands, seeping into my racing bloodstream, turning me to frozen stone. I need to cool my overheated skin in order to calm down but I can't risk running the water. The impossibility of this conundrum alone scatters what's left of my organized thoughts into hopelessness. I stumble into the handicapped stall and huddle in the corner, shaking and gasping and rocking and searching desperately for a thread of reason, a single strand of simplicity and peace to lift me from this swirling, formless madness that is swallowing me whole.

And then it starts.

I hear a loud bang, like metal splitting wood, and then the sound of rushing water. It pours into the bottom of my stall, rising to meet me as I jump to standing, cowering upwards. It rolls and curls around my ankles, my calves, my knees.

Soon it will be my mouth, my nose, my eyebrows.

I blink, but the water stays.

This isn't happening, this can't be happening.

I try closing my eyes, but when I do, I see them. Swaying lifeless in the water-filled car.

My lungs are collapsing.

No air.

I hear another loud bang followed by the sound of my name.

"Elena!"

I turn my head, and see a cracking window. The face of a man.

"Elena!"

Another loud crash.

And then Caroline is there, standing in front of the bathroom door with the now-broken lock that used to be my car window, standing on dry ground that used to be covered in water.

"Elena!" She breathes, eyes wide as she rushes forward to enclose me in a tight embrace. I claw her off of me, panicked.

She startles back with her hands up, but she is undeterred. Her expression is all loving concern and quiet determination. She reaches a hand out slowly, tentatively, to stroke my hair.

"It's okay, Elena. You're okay," she says, soothing. I lean into her touch. I feel wetness around my feet, but when I look there is no water. I squint my eyes in concentration and grit my teeth against their chattering, trying to find a shred of reality to latch on to. To lead me back.

She brushes a hand across my cheek and I feel tears smear behind it. I didn't even know I'd been crying. I hear the toilet paper roll, and then soft tissue is swiping over my other cheek, my trembling neck.

"Open your eyes, Elena," she says gently.

I shake my head, keeping my eyes shut tight, afraid of what I'll see. I focus on Caroline, focus on the sound of her voice, the comfort of her hand gliding methodically over my hair, just like my mother used to do.

At the thought of my mother a cracked sob wracks my body between gasping breaths, fresh tears slide hotly down my cheeks.

Gone. All gone.

I see her beautiful face, her loving eyes and comforting smile. And then, the water. The water rising over the lips that kissed my tears away, the eyes that saw me and loved me unconditionally, that looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Gone.

Swaying in the quiet stillness of death.

I don't even try to fight the horrifying vision, I'm too exhausted to do anything but cry and shiver and try to breathe. I curl into myself and Caroline catches me, cradling me into her lap as she adjust her position on the floor under me, making a soft place on her legs for my head to rest.

Her hair was dark like mine. It rose around her head like a dark halo. In the water, her arms lifted lightly from her body, as though she was reaching for heaven but fell asleep midway. Did she ever get there? Did any of them?

"Shhhh, Elena, it's okay. I'm right here. It's okay." She runs her hand over my hair, gathers my tears with her fingers.

My mother's soft voice, her gentle hands.

_I can almost imagine it is her instead_.

I hear my mother's voice as Caroline's soothes me. Feel my mother's touch as Caroline's comforts me. Even as my mother's body floats lifeless behind my eyes.

_I can almost imagine it is her instead._

So I ignore what I see.

I listen. I feel.

And I am comforted by the lie.

###

My heels click against the worn hardwood of the hallway. I let the sound calm me, give my racing pulse a rhythm to aspire to.

Tonight, I am finally doing it. I am finally seeing a therapist.

After my meltdown at the office, I went back to Caroline's house, and I've been staying there with her ever since. There, in her unfamiliar bed with the steady sound of her breathing beside me, I've managed to get some decent nights' rest.

Sleep, dreamless and dry. It's the best I can ask for these days.

I'm sure everyone at the office thinks I went home because of Klaus, and truthfully, I don't even care. That assumption is far more desirable than the truth about what really happened.

I went back in the next day, earning more than a few disapproving stares and a mini-lecture from Caroline. But my pride dictated that I didn't want anyone, least of all myself, to think I was hiding. But also, I didn't want to be stuck at mine or Caroline's house, rattling around for things to do when there was plenty of work to throw myself into at the office to help me forget my troubles.

I didn't fight Caroline when she booked the session for today. I was ready.

Or at least I felt that way on the cab ride over.

I find the numbers I'm looking for, indicating the door at the very end of the hall. A pair of small wooden chairs sit against the wall that faces the office. They have a weathered look that matches this building, a historic little gem that doesn't feel at all like my modern, sleek office. I know buildings like this still exist here in the city, but I've never had the privilege of spending any time in one before.

If all goes well, that is about to change.

I clear my throat and knock, noting the "come in" sign slipped into a built-in sleeve on the textured glass window of the door only after I've knocked. It looks like it was hastily slipped inside, the placard not completely slid home. I reach up to push it the rest of the way.

As I am pulling my hand back the door opens abruptly, and I am met with the easy smile and broad shoulders of a man I would never have recognized as Stefan's brother.

"Hi there," he says, extending an arm to lock my hand in a firm but relaxed handshake.

He is much more handsome than I thought he would be, with startlingly blue eyes and a shock of messy dark hair. The sleeves of his untucked light-blue button down are rolled back to reveal defined forearms and his jeans fit almost too perfectly over his long legs.

A small ripple of butterfly wings stirs in my stomach.

Coming face to face with the man I will be spilling my guts to in a matter of minutes is making me forget my bravery, swiftly evaporating all of the tenuous calm I managed to cultivate on my short walk down the hall.

It doesn't help that he's so goddamned pretty.

"Hi," I manage before he releases my hand, a catch in my normally clear voice. I am so horrified by this unintentional betrayal of my nerves, I suddenly feel like I've been transported back to junior high. I hide behind my curtain of hair, avoiding eye contact at any cost, clutching the strap of my purse on my shoulder exactly like I used to with my book bag.

_Sheesh. _I didn't expect to feel this flustered.

"It's nice to…uh…meet you…ummm…" I start, but for the life of me I cannot remember his name. _Oh this is not happening…_

"…uh…ummm…"

"Damon?" he says, pinning me with an easy smile, his eyes dancing.

"Damon! Yes, Damon," I laugh nervously. "Sorry."

"No problem at all," he says, at complete ease in the midst of my embarrassing display, clearly an old pro at the awkward client/therapist meet-cute. He crosses the small room to his charmingly cluttered vintage-looking desk, not quite turning his back to me but not facing me either.

"Go ahead and have a seat…" he throws casually over his shoulder.

He rifles through his pockets and pulls out his cell phone, which he switches to silent mode. He clicks a few boxes closed on his laptop screen and shuts it. He is making it look as though he is getting settled, but I can see that he is giving me space to take a beat and relax without the pressure of his direct engagement.

I am simultaneously grateful and more deeply embarrassed by this act of well-honed mercy, and feel my face getting impossibly warmer.

"Thanks," I say, taking a step forward in what I hope appears to be a confident manner, taking a seat in the smaller of the two dark leather couches that are facing each other—the one with the tissue box waiting conspicuously on the side table.

This seat has a clear view of the clock and is closest to the door. Little things to put the mind at ease, little things to give you a sense of control, even when you know you are seconds away from baring your soul to a complete stranger who is trained to poke holes in your carefully composed veneer of safety and denial.

A whisper of winged-insect mutiny threatens.

I inhale, slowly and deeply. I can do this. I _will_ do this. It is perfectly natural to be a little nervous. I am already here in his office. I drove all the way here, I got through a freaking mortifying introduction, and now I am sitting on his couch. There is no way I am walking out of here with a shred of dignity if I go now, and this is not a man I can just forget once I walk out the door. He's my best friend's soon-to-be brother in law for goodness sake.

And more importantly, what will leaving accomplish? Am I willing to go back to square one? I've tried everything else. I've already asked too much of Caroline.

I think of myself, cowering on the bathroom floor. I want more for my life. For myself. I don't just want to have survived.

I want to live.

I let another cleansing breath fill my lungs, resolving to give this my best shot and be open to where this takes me.

And to _please God _make it through_ at least one _session without reaching for that tissue box.

Geared up and ready, and with Damon apparently still hunting for something, I take a moment to take in what I'm seeing.

His office has an old-world, clearly masculine aesthetic but feels more lived in, with just enough mess and mayhem to make you feel comfortable curling up on the couch and a touch of clean-lined modernity and tasteful gravitas to let you know you are in the presence of a qualified pro.

An overloaded but neat bookshelf, a fine but worn Persian rug. An ornately carved wooden desk that looks like it belongs in some rich plantation owner's study, littered with mismatched coffee cups that have most likely not held a warm beverage for quite some time. Uneven stacks of paper compete for space with a scattered collection of artifacts that look like they were purchased during some very exotic travels.

I like it. It feels homey. Unfamiliar, but safe. And I like him. Even in his current scattered state, his ease is contagious.

"Would you like a stick of gum?" he asks, looking appraisingly at me while holding a piece in his outstretched hand.

"If you're anything like me, it'll help keep the nerves calm," he offers with a sympathetic smile and a knowing twinkle to his eye, like an indulgent parent who has pretended not to see the crumbs on my face and is asking if I'd like a cookie. "I know for some people, making the choice to see a therapist can be a frightening one."

Huh. Smooth. He's calling me out, but somehow I don't feel embarrassed, just more at ease. _Disarming._ I go with it, taking the gum and allowing myself a small sigh and a sheepish laugh before popping it my mouth. But I refuse to fidget beyond a quick swipe of my fingers to tuck my sheet of long brown hair behind my ear. _We aren't getting fidgety_.

"Thank you," I say. "Am I that obvious?" The gum feels cool and tingly in my mouth, and lo and behold, I feel my body temperature going down, the familiar and casual ritual of chewing like the ticking of some hypnotic metronome.

"I'd say on a scale of 1 to 10, that was a respectable 5," he says, flopping down on the couch facing me as a playful smirk teases across his lovely features.

"A 5?" I say in only partially feigned outrage. "I think you are judging me _more_ than a little too harshly," I say with a smile. "That was definitely closer to a 3. Maybe even a 2 and a half. I didn't trip or vomit or arrive with a booger hanging out of my nose or anything, so…"

He chuckles, a low rumbling sound that makes my skin tingle.

"Alright, alright you win," he says. "I'll give you a 4 but no less. We'll shoot for the 3's and 2's next time I see you."

"Deal," I say, flashing him a coy smile as I lean back into the soft leather once more, peeking at him through my lashes.

_Wait a minute. _

_Was that too flirty?_

_Watch yourself, Gilbert_.

I clear my throat into my fist and rest my hands in my lap over my light grey pencil skirt. I feel overdressed next to his decidedly casual attire, but I didn't have time to change since I came straight from work.

"I can't believe I'm actually here," I say honestly. "Caroline's been bugging me to come see you for an age, and I've heard so much about you…"

_Oh shit._

The second the words are out of my mouth, I want to shove them back in. He doesn't show any indication of anger or sadness at my comment. It's only a slight shift at the edge of his eyes, the dimming of that now familiar spark, that betrays him.

_Shit shit shit._ "Oh…oh my God I am…I am just...so sorry…" I start to stammer, when he holds up his hands to stop me.

"No, no stop, don't worry about it," he cuts me off with a smile that is still warm and sincere, though his eyes suddenly look weary. He clasps his hands, pressing his forearms into his legs. "I know that you and my brother and especially Caroline are close and the fact that you're sitting here almost guarantees that you know all about it."

He tries to make the next part sound casual, but I hear the deep breath the words are riding on.

"I don't mind talking about my wife and what happened to her. I know it can sometimes be a hurdle that is…difficult for people that know about the accident to forget when they interact with me. So I want you to know that I don't mind talking about it and you don't need to tiptoe around it."

He locks those ice-blue eyes on me without warning, sending a shock down my spine at the otherworldly sight of their clear, almost crystalline quality.

The air shifts imperceptibly, the hair at the nape of my neck tingling and standing up.

"I want this space to be a place that you feel safe to express yourself in, where you can speak your darkest truths and fears and questions without worrying about being judged by me. Where you can learn not to judge yourself. We will never achieve that level of ease and trust if you are walking on eggshells, worried about what is okay and not okay to say. About what I will think."

I nod in understanding, feeling the measured and calculable weight of his words even as my shoulders relax.

He studies me for an extra half-beat, probably trying to ascertain how effective his speech was at rescuing me from my morale nosedive. He must be satisfied by what he sees because he leans back in his chair and takes a more relaxed posture.

"So now that we've tackled that, thanks to you, lets try this again." He leans forward with a mischievous smile and an extended hand. "My name is Damon Salvatore. It's very nice to meet you Miss…" He pauses theatrically.

"…Gilbert" I finish decisively, giving his hand a firm shake and a light squeeze so he'll know I'm back in the game. "Elena Gilbert."

"Well it's very nice to meet you, Miss Gilbert." He grins playfully, not letting go of my hand.

"Likewise, Mr. Salvatore. Dr. Salvatore?" I question.

"Just Damon." he says. And lets my hand slip from his, leaving the unmistakable yet unmistakably inappropriate sensation of electricity behind, crackling in my palm like a warning.

* * *

_Author's Note: DAMON! Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think! And don't forget to click Follow (and Favorite maybe? Maybe?) so you don't miss out on the rest of the session with sexy therapist Damon!_

_Goldknox, I need to say thank you for your super generous and life-affirming comment and for giving me a shout out on your Sounds of Tomorrow redirection page. For those of you not reading her work and downloading Sounds of Tomorrow from Amazon...well I just feel very very sorry for you and all the Delena hotness you are depriving yourself of.  
_

_The same goes for Trogdor19, my incredible beta, whose fire-dodging daring-do and rainbow-colored comments make my heart want to explode with a million tiny parasitic wasp babies. Run don't walk, people. Her Desperate Love Trilogy is an epic action-packed tornado of sexy Delena awesomeness, as is every single other work she has written. RUN._

_Will update soon!_

_Xoxo, NightLight_


	4. Ch 4 - Coming Clean

_Author's Note: Hi, lovies! We continue here with the rest of Damon and Elena's session. I tagged on a few lines from the last chapter just to refresh your memory, but feel free to click back and read from the last time lapse in Chapter 3 on to get the scene in it's entirety. Enjoy! Xoxo_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Coming Clean**

_"…Gilbert" I finish decisively, giving his hand a firm shake and a light squeeze so he'll know I'm back in the game. "Elena Gilbert." _

_"Well it's very nice to meet you, Miss Gilbert." He grins playfully, not letting go of my hand. _

_"Likewise, Mr. Salvatore. Dr. Salvatore?" I start. _

_"Just Damon." He interrupts. And lets my hand slip from his, leaving the unmistakable yet unmistakably inappropriate sensation of electricity behind, crackling in my palm like a warning._

"So, Elena, what brings you here?" he asks. I rub my still-tingling palm against the fabric of my skirt.

"Well," I say, before clearing my throat. "I've been having these…attacks."

"Attacks?"

"Or…episodes, or something."

"What do you feel when you're having them?"

"Well, I feel panicked, I say simply. "Like I can't breathe. I start shaking. _Really_ shaking uncontrollably." I take automatic inventory of my body at this statement, and notice that my hands are clenching in my lap. I release them and close my eyes as I pause to take a deep breath.

"And then there are the flashbacks."

"Flashbacks?" he asks. "What do you flash back to?

I sigh.

Now I am the one feeling weary.

The air feels heavy in my lungs as I fill them one more time, reminding myself I still can.

I draw up the well-rehearsed words, spoken so often and for so long now that their sharpness is almost unable to cut me.

Almost.

I clear my throat before I continue.

"When I was 15, I was in a car accident with my entire family."

I pause out of habit, too tired to even look up to see the reaction I am used to waiting for.

"We were driving to our lake house for the weekend. There's a bridge in my hometown in Virginia, Mystic Falls. It's a long bridge for a small town, but not a particularly large bridge otherwise. It was the middle of the day, a perfectly clear summer day. But a semi driver fell asleep at the wheel and drifted into our lane."

Inhale.

More oxygen.

"My…" I swallow around the lump forming in my throat, "…Dad swerved to avoid the collision, but we ended up in the river instead." I clear my throat. "A man who just happened to be a lifeguard was right behind the semi and witnessed the whole thing. He dove in after us and managed to pull me to safety."

_A flash of a face in the window. A sharp rock, a shock of spider web designs. His hand tight on my arm, the sting of my leg cut open by the glass. _

"I was the only one not wearing a seatbelt. I was the only one who remained conscious when our car hit the water." I pause again. This is the part where I am supposed to make a joke about the irony of not wearing a seatbelt saving my life. But I can't bring myself to say it. My mouth is dry and empty where those lighthearted words should be.

"They all drowned."

He'll want to know their names. Everyone does. The story always ends with their names on my lips, rolling thickly like the taste of cough syrup over my tongue.

"My…" swallow, "…brother, Jeremy. My Mom, my Dad. I was the only one who survived."

There is silence when I finish.

I have come to rely on to my rote retelling of this invariably too-big-to-omit part of my life to say what needs to be said with the least amount of emotional damage. It's better for everyone if I don't cry. It's better for everyone if I can get the cold hard facts out without connecting them to my heart, without actually remembering the horrible truth behind the words I am speaking.

But Damon isn't just anyone. He lost someone he loves in a car accident too.

He is as white as a sheet.

And the look in his clear blue eyes is so raw, I know he understands. The sudden violence, the inexplicable loss, your whole world buried and gone in casket of metal. Somewhere deep. Somewhere far below.

Somewhere you can never reach them again.

For the first time ever, in all my years since the accident, somebody understands.

I feel warmth spreading in my chest and painting my cheeks but I don't know why. I'm not ashamed. I'm not sorry I told him. And he just told me not more than a few minutes ago not to hold back, not to walk on eggshells.

It's the way he is looking at me, like I've suddenly transformed before his eyes.

I hold his gaze, both energized by the strange connection we have and confused by the feelings it is evoking in my body.

I feel very calm—uncharacteristically so for just having retold that story I hate so much to tell. I don't feel the need to look away, even though I'm pretty sure I should by now. And apparently he doesn't either, because his gaze doesn't waver.

It isn't until he swallows audibly and his eyes fall to his hands that the spell is broken. He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly—whether it is to dislodge the ghost of whatever just passed between us or that of his wife, I don't know. He runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat, his voice rough and low when he speaks. My skin starts to prickle, as though the frequency of his voice could make my hair stand on end.

"Thank you, Elena, for sharing that story with me."

He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is a little smoother. "This is the part where I should tell you I'm sorry for your loss," he chuckles quietly, "but I used to hate it when people said that to me." When he looks at me again, one side of his mouth is turned up in a half-smile that looks very charming on his handsome face.

I feel a smile pulling at my lips in response, his lightened mood contagious. "Well then I'll spare you having to utter the offending words," I say, cocking my head with a little smirk of my own. I let my eyes sweep down to my fidgeting hands, appreciative of the space he is giving me to form my words, the companionable silence. Is that something you can learn? Something he was taught when he was training to be a therapist?

My voice is quieter than I mean it to be when I speak. "It never bothered me all that much. I knew they meant well, even if it did start to get old after awhile. It was better than when people didn't say anything at all." I look up to see his eyes, bright with intention and empathy. But not with pity. Not like so many others have been.

He leans towards me, pressing his forearms into his thighs and clasping his hands over the empty space between them. All of that intensity, all of that wide-eyed crystal blue and dark messy hair and square jawed masculinity is directed unflinchingly at me, and I find my lungs fighting harder for air in spite of myself.

"It's horrible Elena," he says, his voice soothing and sincere despite the way his eyes burn. "It's horrible what happened to you. I am so terribly sorry."

There isn't a single part of me that doesn't believe that he means every word.

"Thank you, Damon." I say, a little taken aback by the odd weight those words have lifted from my chest, the sensation that they were just the ones I needed to hear. I give him an uncertain smile.

He leans back against the leather of his couch cushions, but the intensity of his gaze is only slightly diminished.

"So when you have these flashbacks, what do you see?"

I tuck my hair behind my ear and clear my throat, giving myself a few seconds to collect my ugly thoughts. This is the part where I admit I am losing my mind.

"Most of the time it starts as a feeling, like I can't breathe."

I look at Damon to gauge his reaction, but his expression is unreadable.

"I see water. Sometimes it starts in my peripheral vision. Kind of like tunnel vision, but it starts to look like the river. Or sometimes I just see and feel water that isn't there. And then it's everywhere and I'm right back there again. I'm in the car and I'm trapped, and I know I'm going to die, that everyone I love is going to die, but I can't get out."

_Crap._ I just admitted that I see things that aren't real. He is going to have me behind padded walls by morning. Why didn't I at least go to a stranger, someone who isn't going to spend Caroline's entire wedding worried the Maid of Honor might start batting away imaginary bugs and commandeering the dance floor for an impromptu tap number because "the voices" told her to?

"And how often are you having these episodes?"

He looks so calm. Not the reaction I was expecting. Did he hear me earlier when I said I was _hallucinating_?

"Well, after the accident, I had them pretty frequently. I would have dreams about it, but when I woke up, they didn't feel any less real. It was still like it was happening all over again—like I was _convinced_ I was going to drown, even though I was sitting in my bed." I shake my head and shrug against the weight of the memories. "I was always really anxious afterwards. Nothing seemed safe, even simple things. I saw the potential for disaster in every situation I was in, in every mundane task. Crossing the street, riding the subway, chopping vegetables for dinner. Forget about taking a bath," I scoff. "_Those_ are a thing of the past."

Damon nods, a ghost of an understanding smirk shaping his lips. I continue.

"I was easily excitable. I would get spooked or psych myself out and I could just work myself up and into it."

"Did you ever seek treatment for them?" he asks.

"Well, not really," I say, somewhat guiltily. "My Aunt Jenna took me in after the accident, since I was underage and she was next of kin, even though she's only eight years older than me. Anyways, she and I just sort of…muddled through it, I guess. She would sort of talk me down, or try to give me other things to focus on. Or she would just hold me and we would wait for it to pass. We would just…ride it out together."

There is a pause and I take a moment to reflect before continuing. He doesn't push.

His eyes are soft, but his mouth is a focused line. I go on, feeling mildly amazed by how good it feels to say all of this out loud, how easy it is to tell _him_, this stranger I have only just met.

"They lessened eventually, the further I got from the accident. I'd go through phases…stressful times when I might be experiencing more anxiety than usual. I'd freak myself out and have a couple episodes over a month or so. But they'd eventually taper off and stop. And it seemed like they were happening less and less, like I was going longer periods of time without them."

He nods again. I sigh and shift a little in my seat.

"But lately, they seem to be…more frequent." I meet his eyes from under my lashes, feeling suddenly sheepish and small at having to make this admission.

I continue. "I've had a few near-attacks in the office. Caroline was always right there with me." I smile fondly. "She's been like my Aunt Jenna since I moved out on my own. My rock. I spend most of my time at the office with her as my right hand gal and she lives just a few buildings down from my apartment, so she's pretty much always on call."

I laugh weakly and gesture in his direction. "She's been bugging me about needing to see you, but I guess I just thought if there was a time to see a therapist, it would have been right after the accident. It just seemed like that ship had sailed, in a way."

"So what changed your mind?" he asks, genuine curiosity lacing his words as he leans toward me, pressing his elbows into his thighs and resting his chin on the top of his clasped hands.

I pause, exhaling deeply and rubbing a hand wearily over the back of my neck at the unpleasant memories.

"A little less than a year ago, I had an attack at the office." I say, swallowing hard around the gum that is suddenly very stale in my mouth. I spit it into a tissue and toss it into trash.

"I tried to stop it, tried to calm myself down, but I couldn't do it. It got out of control, till it was a full-blown meltdown. Caroline had to cancel a presentation I was supposed to give to one of the biggest names in the publishing industry, after they had already arrived and had been waiting for me in the conference room. I could've lost my job. Thankfully, our boss has the hots for Caroline and was willing to buy her story about my being suddenly violently ill with food-poisoning." A small smile tugs the corner of my lips.

"They made amends with the company, but my name is dirt there, especially with the head honcho I was supposed to be meeting with, who did _not_ take it well. And being trash in the eyes of the biggest name at the biggest company in the industry has made it difficult, if not impossible, for me to make a lot of really important moves in my career." I can't bear to mention the specifics of what happened with Klaus. I don't want to waste another minute of my life thinking about it, let alone explaining it.

I look up at Damon to see if he's still with me.

"At any rate, a few days ago, I had another attack at the office."

I sigh with my whole body, weariness seeping into me where the lightness had been before.

"It's one thing to be having trouble in my personal life. But I can't afford to be having problems at work. Not after what happened with BigLittle."

"BigLittle Publishing? Wow," he says. "Everybody knows BigLittle."

"Yup," I say, popping the p, "_Sharon White_ of BigLittle, no less. Which probably doesn't mean much to you, but think Miranda Priestly of Vogue—that's how big she is. Everything she touches turns to gold. Or a New York Times best-seller."

I smile a little and look up at him. His face is so intense, his expression so accepting.

It feels like an accusation.

If only he knew: I am not worthy of his acceptance, not worthy of his kind words and patient comfort.

Shame drops—heavy as lead in my gut, and I am overcome by a sudden need to come clean. The words form behind my teeth and are tumbling over my tongue like they can't stand to stay inside of me another second.

"I suppose I've put Caroline through a lot of trouble, avoiding this for so long." I look down at my hands. "I haven't been the best friend to her in that regard. I've been content to 'deal with things on my own,' being my stubborn self." I try for a laugh but it just comes out sounding sad. "All those times I convinced myself that I was fine and that I was handling it…really I was just putting the burden of everything I've been carrying on her."

"The same goes for my Aunt Jenna I suppose. All those years…" I let my words trail off, then take a deep shaky breath before I meet his eyes.

"I feel like I've just made such a mess of things. And now my life is a mess and I have all of these memories behind me and all of these compounding experiences working against me and it just seems like I have so far to go before I can get better, you know? If that's even possible anymore."

I feel the backs of my eyes beginning to ache, my throat starting to tighten. I cross my arms over my chest and curl my shoulders inward, letting my hair fall in my face to shield it from his view. I steal an accusatory glance at the Kleenex box, and then squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to keep the tears at bay.

Thank God I got in the habit of wearing waterproof mascara after the accident.

My name is soft and tender on his lips.

"Elena? Hey, Elena? Can you look at me?"

I shake my head no, the first of my tears spilling over and sliding hotly down my cheeks.

"Elena. Look at me," he says, his voice still gentle, but carrying a commanding undertone now that makes my chin lift almost involuntarily.

His eyes are wide and imploring. Tears are streaming down my face, but I hold his gaze. Why should I hide? He sees everything already.

"None of this is your fault." His voice is even, but an unmistakable note of emphatic fierceness threatens under the surface.

"Do you understand me, Elena? None of it. Your Aunt Jenna, Caroline…they had a choice to be there for you or not to be. You didn't force them to do anything. You can't control their choices, but you can control _your_ choices."

I sniffle a little but keep my arms crossed. The intensity of his gaze holds me and I can't—don't want to look away.

I listen.

"And you're here right now. You showed up to this appointment, you allowed yourself to be honest with me," he says, ducking his head when I start to look away, willing me to keep eye contact with him.

"As long as you are willing to do that, Elena, you are going to see results here with me."

I swipe at the wetness on my cheeks and shoot him an incredulous look. He raises an eyebrow at me with a smirk.

"You know how many people I see come through my office on a given day? On a given week? Some of them I have been seeing since I started my practice. Others are in and out of here in a matter of months. Do you know what the difference is?

I shake my head and finally cave, reaching for a tissue from that traitor box I knew would need from the moment I walked through the door.

"Honesty. Authenticity. And a willingness to _work_ at getting better. You possess all of these things already Elena, I can see it." He gestures excitedly. "You didn't come in here feeding me some surface-y party line about how you're doing just fine…how all you need are some new tips on dealing with the attacks and a referral to a psychiatrist. You came in here with the truth. You provided insight into the situation all on your own, with no help from me. And most of all you came in here ready to take responsibility for getting better. Elena, do you know how huge that is? How long it can take me to get just to that point with some of my clients?"

"You don't bullshit yourself and you don't bullshit others. You've already been proactive in the way you've set up your life to deal with the episodes—creating a support system, learning how to talk yourself down on your own, learning what works for you and what doesn't, what triggers it, what calms it."

He leans back against his cushions. "For someone who's experienced trauma of this magnitude at such a young age, frankly I'm amazed by how effectively you've been able to compartmentalize your post traumatic stress disorder, how seamlessly you've been able to go on with your life in spite of it and everything you've been through."

_Post traumatic stress disorder. Huh. _

He leans forward again, running his hand through his hair. His voice is soothing when he continues, gentling the last of my insecurity away. "It may have taken you awhile to get here, Elena, but I believe that you are only here now because you are meant to be. Because you are _ready_ to be. Maybe Caroline made this appointment for you, but nobody can really force anyone to bring themselves to therapy, Elena. You did that. And maybe it wouldn't have been right before now."

I never thought of that before, but it's true. All those years I thought I wasted…maybe I wouldn't have been ready then, to really get better. I feel a weight I didn't even know was there lifting off my chest, leaving a pleasant but foreign-feeling lightness behind.

"You can't know what would've happened in the past, Elena. You can only take responsibility for the _present_."

He rests back into his cushions once more, gesturing towards me. "Now that you're here, you get to choose whether or not you are going to use me to get better, or not." He pulls his hand back and presses his fingertips wide over his heart. "I can help guide you, but you have to do the heavy lifting. And I know you will. Trust me when I say that I see a lot of people darken my door, and you are ready. You _will _get better, Elena."

I blink, my tears forgotten. I feel so different, sitting here, his words sinking into my mind, my heart. _I will get better_. I feel better already. He has so much confidence in me. Do I have it in myself? Yes I do. He is right. There is nothing I won't do to put all of this behind me, once and for all.

I will get better. I am going to get better.

I attempt to identify the warmth I am feeling, spreading from my chest and out through my limbs, leaving feathery lightness and a steady calm in its wake. And then it hits me.

Hope.

I look at Damon, who has been watching my face, gauging my acceptance of his words. I smile.

"Thank you," I say honestly.

"My pleasure Elena," he says, a grin brightening his lovely face.

We just smile at each other, easy silence filling the room, warming the space between us.

After a long moment, he speaks, his eyes dancing appealingly. "So does this time work for you?

"Yeah," I reply, "actually it's perfect."

I look up to glance at the clock…

"Oh my goodness Damon!" I exclaim, horrified. "It's an hour past the end of my appointment time! Why didn't you say anything?"

He gestures dismissively. "You're the last client of my day. I had the time. Plus you're a family friend, so I don't mind putting in the extra time. I love what I do, Elena," he says with a shrug. "And having somebody as ready to work as you are…well…it's a treat."

He fixes me with those otherworldly blue eyes and I wonder if I will ever get used to them, if I will ever _not _feel that…_something_ that shoots down my spine when he pins me with them. "I mean it, Elena. Thank you for tonight. I very much look forward to working with you in the future."

"Me too, I say, my smile so wide I doubt I could wipe it off of my face if I tried.

I pull my purse over my shoulder and smooth my skirt as I stand. He plants his hands on his knees and pushes himself to standing as well, walking slowly behind me in silence as I make my way toward the door. Facing reality outside of this office, outside of the accepting comfort of his words, his presence, leaves me feeling suddenly cold and a little regretful.

I touch the door handle.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" I say, spinning around to find him much closer than I expected, just a little over a foot away. I feel a tingling warmth sparkle over my skin at his proximity. Is it possible to feel his body heat from here?

Because suddenly I do. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

I take a sharp breath that he must have mistaken for surprise, because he takes a step back, chuckling.

"Sorry about that. What were you saying?"

"Umm…" _What _was_ I saying?_ "Oh! Payment. Caroline didn't tell me what your hourly rate is. How much do I owe you?" I rifle through my embarrassingly disorganized purse, searching for my checkbook.

"Don't worry about it," he says, placing a hand on the arm that is elbow-deep in my purse to stop me. His hand is warm and soft on my skin.

"But, I…" I attempt.

"We can deal with it another time," he interjects, offering me a reassuring squeeze and dropping his hand from my arm when he sees I'm no longer digging. "I'll take some time to think of a friends and family discount," he says, winking playfully. I am grinning involuntarily again. Damn him and his disarming smile.

"I just don't feel right about short-changing you because I happen to be best friends with your brother's girlfriend."

"Fiancé," he corrects. "Caroline is like a sister to me already. And if you and Caroline are as close as she's always going on about, you definitely are as good as family to me."

I purse my lips and glare at him, trying to ascertain the likelihood of my getting through to him tonight.

_Not very_ likely, I decide.

I cross my arms over my chest and give him my patented "Gilbert Glare" to show him I mean business.

"Well, I'm not going to argue with you right now because I've already kept you long enough, but we _are_ going to talk more about this and I am _going_ to pay you a fair wage, _period_."

"Fair enough," he says, holding his arms up in mock surrender. "We'll talk about it next week."

"Deal," I say, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Deal," he says, and his palm brushes against mine. His fingers curl around my hand and squeeze and that connection is there once more, sizzling and sparkling over my palm. I swallow hard against the desire to gasp, against the unmistakable sensation of goosebumps raking my arms.

"Goodnight, Miss Gilbert," he says, his fingers slipping from mine. "I look forward to our next session."

"See you next week," I manage, offering a shy smile before I turn and press the door handle. I register belatedly that I might have seen him rub his hand against the side seam of his jeans.

Maybe it's just me.

I head down the hallway toward the elevator, willing myself not to look back. But when I feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle, I turn.

All I catch is the barest flicker of his profile and the blue of his shirt in the space left by the closing door, before it slides into its latch with a soft click.

Leaving me alone with my thoughts, the steady rhythmic click of my heels against the floorboards.

Leaving me to wonder if he was watching me go, or if it was only my imagination.

* * *

_Author's Note: I know there are some purists out there whose alarm bells are going off because Jenna is only 8 years older than Elena in this fic as opposed to the 12 she is on the show. I thought long and hard about it, but I really needed Elena and Jenna to be closer in age in order for this story to work. So I apologize if that gets under your skin. I promise I will make it up to you with some sweet Jenna/Alaric very soon._

_Fun fact: This was one of the very first scenes that popped in my head and gotten written down, before this fic was anything more than a tiny twinkle in my eye. So I hope you liked it! If you did, please leave me a comment because they feed my beginner-writer muse...it's a baby so it's very needy and hungry! And don't forget to Follow/Favorite! _Especially_ all of you Jenna/Alaric fans because they might be making an appearance in the next chapter. Just sayin'..._

_Trogdor19, as always, this chapter would suck something awful without you and your patience for the rotten monkeys that are ALWAYS on fire, your bottomless well of off-the-cuff genius, and your indefatigable encouragement/goading/demanding like the gentle gnawing of persistent zombie squirrels._

_Xoxo,_

_NightLight_


	5. Ch 5 - Strawberry Shampoo and Dessert

**Chapter 5: Strawberry Shampoo and Dessert**

I don't know what I expected would happen after my first visit with a therapist. Honestly I don't think I expected much.

And after my session with Damon, maybe it's true that nothing had officially _changed_. There were no fireworks shows or groups of people breaking into spontaneous song and dance as I walked by. I didn't wake up clutching a trophy with a "Perfect Mental Health" plaque on it.

But I just felt…_different_.

The rest of the week rolled along, the rhythm of the office thrumming in predictable fashion. I managed to survive my meeting with Susanna and even a run in with Klaus with dignity. And without inflicting any injury, physical or otherwise.

A victory.

At Caroline's, I was sleeping well again. But I knew I'd have to go back to my own apartment eventually, and that "eventually" should be sooner than later.

So I didn't give Caroline a chance to argue with me. I begged off our usual Friday night hang at The Square, and placed Caroline's apartment key on her desk while she was still busy on the phone. Her eyes went wide as saucers before her brow furrowed tight in concern, but I just gave her shoulder a squeeze and mouthed that I would call her. I think she understood my double meaning because I saw her nod and her shoulders relax just a fraction of an inch.

Just a fraction.

One day, they won't be raised at all over me. One day soon.

I was nervous stepping into my apartment alone, but I also felt strangely calm. I couldn't explain it. The steady feeling inside my chest, my bones. The edges were still shaky, but something at the core of me felt settled, more able to carry my weight. I had only one possible explanation for such a change.

Damon.

If I had known how much it would help to talk to somebody about what had happened to me, how much it would mean to simply have a name for it, I would have gone much sooner.

_"Maybe it wouldn't have been right, before now."_

His words echo in my mind, a salve against the long lonely years that have stretched between _now_ and the loss of my family. Everything has led me here, to the very _right_ right now. Suddenly nothing seems wrong, the years don't feel like the waste I always imagined them to be.

And what are the chances that I would have this friend/family connection with a therapist that just so happened to lose a loved one in almost the same way I lost mine? It makes my story feel safer with him, as though I could leave more of it in his care than I would have been able to with someone else.

That sliver of hope I felt in his office has stayed with me. Infinitesimally small, unquestionably strange, but unmistakably there.

So when I hear the familiar jangle of my keys as they drop into the bowl on my entry table, when I pop an instant meal into my microwave and curl up on my sofa for a movie, when I shower and pick up a manuscript and slip into bed for the night, I don't feel fearful. I don't feel anxious or uneasy. I feel okay.

I barely manage to text Caroline and flip the light on my bedside lamp before I am nodding off, the hustle and bustle of the city outside my window a soothing caress against my forehead, the foreign sturdiness that is beginning to pervade my long-fractured soul, a lullaby.

###

I would say that I woke Saturday morning to the sound of birds chirping, but it would be more accurate to say pigeons were cooing. They aren't my favorite, but it made me wake with a smile. In New York, everything is always a little less and a little more glamorous than it appears in the movies.

I didn't even mind that their song sounded more like a purr than a melody, or the fact that their feathers were grey and dirty instead of red or blue or even brown. The first good night's sleep I've had in my bed in a long time deserves a little spontaneous avian appreciation.

"Good morning," I greet them, and then shoo them away with the most good-natured flip of my wrist I can manage.

I brush my teeth and wash my face so that everything feels as fresh as this new day. I throw a robe on over my pajamas and pad into my kitchen, getting ready to surf my iPad for the news and make myself a small cup of coffee.

I am reaching for the coffee grounds when I see the green tea peeking out from behind it, shoved unceremoniously toward the back of my cupboard.

I remember the shaking feeling I had in the meeting with Klaus, how similar it felt to having too much caffeine in my system right before I lost control.

What the heck, I'll give it a try.

I heat water in my teakettle and soothe myself with the promise that I can always go grab some decaf when I'm out and about today.

I swish the tea bag absentmindedly as the steaming water cools, perched at my favorite chair at my kitchen island as I search and sift through the news of the day. The sound of my phone buzzing across the gleaming quartzite interrupts the lazy silence.

Probably Caroline. I answer without looking.

"Good morning," I say, ready to launch into the happy news of my nightmare-free night.

"Well aren't we chipper this morning," I hear, but it is my Aunt Jenna's voice on the other line.

"Jenna? I thought you were Caroline! What the heck are _you_ doing calling me so early in the AM? And on a Saturday, no less. Aren't you laying in a ditch somewhere? Or nursing the hair of the dog with your arms wrapped around a toilet?"

My Aunt Jenna is the much younger sister of my mother. Even though she was only 24 when she became my legal guardian, she's always done her very best to do right by me, even if the bond we formed has always felt more sisterly than parental. God bless her, the fun-loving party-girl stage she was going through when she took me in has proved to be less of a "phase" and more of a life-choice.

"Ha ha, Elena," she says, but there is an edge of nervousness underlying her teasing tone. I am just about to ask her about it when she goes on.

"I was actually packing," she says flatly, and then goes quiet.

My stomach drops. "Jenna, is everything okay? Why were you packing?"

"Ummm, well..." There is a pause and then her words rush out on one bursting exhale. "I kind of lost my job on Friday." She takes a deep breath. "And before I had the chance to tell Logan, he actually broke up with me. After I sort of attacked him and forced him to have conciliatory sex with me about the job."

"Oh my God Jenna, are you serious?" I ask, unable to keep the smile that is tugging at the corner of my lips from leaking into my voice.

"Shut up."

I can hear her pouting.

"I really am sorry, Jenna," I say as seriously as I can. "It's not funny."

"It's kind of a little funny," she admits with a chuckle.

"Just a little bit," I giggle back. She knows how much I hated Logan. Truth be told, I think she was kind of starting to hate Logan toward the end, but she would never admit it. He was such an arrogant ass.

I am distracted from my musings by the sound of silence.

Jenna is not the silent type.

"Ummm…is there something else?" I start, and then it dawns on me. "Wait a second, why were you packing again?" My heart starts to leap happily in my chest because I think I know the answer.

"Well, see…" She blows out a nervous breath. "I don't really know how to ask this but…I really don't have anything out here anymore and I just feel like I need a…change. Or something. Like, I was thinking, maybe a move to a big city…"

"Yes!" I interrupt her. "Are you asking if you can move in with me? Because the answer is yes!"

"I just need a change of scenery for a little while," she hedges, but she sounds so relieved. Did she think I was going to say no? "I've always wanted to get out of this God-forsaken town and I figured since you had that spare room and I haven't visited in awhile…" she trails off. "Is this okay Elena, really? I feel bad just springing myself on you out of the blue."

"Oh my God Jenna, stop it. Of course! I honestly can't wait. It's been a little, um, lonely around here." I decide I'll save the fireworks for when we're face to face. "So when are you thinking of coming up?"

The line is silent again.

"Jenna? Did I lose you?"

"What if I told you I was halfway there right now?"

I jump off my stool and squeal with joy, feeling very much like I've channeled Caroline. "Jenna, are you serious? That is fantastic. I can't wait to see you! You can park in my spot in the underground lot. Spot 22, Gate code 1235. I'll text it to you."

"Still no car, huh?" Jenna asks.

"Nope," I say, popping the p. "Not interested."

I can drive but I've always hated it since the accident, for obvious reasons. After I graduated from Columbia four years ago and moved to Manhattan, I sold my car and have never looked back. Even though I can't do the subway, the inheritance my parents left me when they died means I will never have to worry about cab fare. My Mom wrote a few novels that became wildly successful years before I was born, and now all of her royalty checks come to me.

"Why bother when my personal chauffeurs and their lovely-smelling yellow cars are waiting around every corner and cruising down every street looking for me?" I say with a smirk. "This is New York. The last time you touch your car will be when you park it in my parking spot."

Jenna makes a sound like a giddy shiver. "Oh my goodness I am _so excited_. Thank you _so so much_ Elena, you have no idea. I can't wait to catch up! See you in about three hours."

"Three hours?" I exclaim.

"I might be a little more than halfway," she says, and I can hear the mischievous smile in her voice. "See you soon."

I set the phone down next to my abandoned iPad with a smile.

"Well, good morning indeed," I say to myself.

In my now incandescent mood, the green tea tastes a whole notch above passable.

###

I can't help myself.

When Jenna rolls up, I am waiting on my front stoop, my sneaker-clad toes bouncing excitedly on the pavement while I enjoy my second cup of green tea.

The stuff kind of grows on you.

I wave like a maniac and then motion that I'll meet her in the garage.

When I reach her, I throw my arms around her and hug for dear life. God I missed her. She smells like stale car and coffee, but also like family. I press my nose into her hair and inhale the familiar scent of her strawberry vanilla shampoo. She's the only relative I have left.

"Let me get a look at you," she says, pulling back, running her hands through my hair to brush it off of my face. "Beautiful as always." She smiles one of her rare maternal smiles and tears jump behind my eyes.

"I really missed you 'Lena. Thank you so much for this. I really needed it."

"Oh my goodness Jenna, stop thanking me!" I exclaim, swiping at my eyes and swallowing as discreetly as I can against the emotion constricting my throat. "Let's get you inside and settled. Are you hungry? Want to go grab a bite or a coffee or something?"

She starts grabbing bags and I follow suit, nestling my empty teacup on top of a pile of crumpled clothes. Most of the bags are still unzipped and overflowing. It looks like she just ripped her entire closet off the hangers and stuffed them haphazardly into whatever traveling receptacle she could find.

Come to think of it, that's probably exactly what happened.

"Actually, I'd really just love to just get some rest for a few hours," she says wearily. "I didn't really sleep last night."

"Totally get it," I say. "Let's get you to your new bed then."

I lead the way.

###

When Jenna wakes up, it is just before 5pm. She is starving and hankering for asparagus fries, so we get dressed and head to The Square for an early dinner with absolutely no complaints from me.

I let her fill the time on our walk to the restaurant with the rehashing of her gruesome tale. Apparently the Mystic Falls Channel 2 News broadcasting center was looking to downsize, and Jenna's job as one of the many production assistants had become obsolete. Even she admits it was probably for the best, seeing as though working with Logan, the station's lead anchor, on a daily basis after their breakup would have been torture. Logan isn't exactly the type of guy to let things ride out privately. So it probably wouldn't have been long before she was looking for a new job of her own accord.

We're seated at one of the far booths that back up to the bar, and I choose the chair across the table from the bench because I can't resist a good people-watching spectacle.

Things look pretty tame for the time being. The bartender is polishing glasses between attending to the few scattered patrons, a couple is getting drinks before dinner, a few single people are having a bite belly-up, and a cluster of friends are sampling a flight of beer from the tasting menu. This is probably their first stop on what is bound to be a long night of bar hopping.

Soon the bar will be two or three deep, and the bartenders won't have time to do anything but hold on and pour for their lives.

The waitress takes our drink orders. I opt for water, wanting to wait till I've filled my belly with a little sustenance, but Jenna goes for the jugular, ordering a whiskey sour. I raise my eyebrow at her but she just gives me her "_are you really surprised?_" look and I have to shrug. 'Cause no. No, I'm not.

I better get my hair-holding hands ready.

"Ugh, enough about me and my problems! I'm sick of talking about it," Jenna says, wiggling as though trying to shake off the depressing summation of her life she's spent the last hour reliving. "I wanna hear about what _you've_ been up to! How have you been? Honestly now." She gives me a pointed look, and I sigh.

_Here we go._

"Well…"

By the time I've finished filling her in about the nightmares and the attacks and Klaus, we are halfway through our double order of asparagus fries.

"Oh my God, Elena. I had no idea, I am so sorry," she says, shell-shocked, munching on a Ranch-drenched stem absentmindedly. "Damn, I really hate that I've been so far away from you when you've been going through all of this."

"Well, you're here now," I say, squeezing her arm across the table with a smile. "And Caroline's been a total Godsend, as you know. I'm so excited for you to meet her and spend some time with her! I think you guys are going to get along great."

I pause, leaning back a little further and fiddling with the coaster under my drink.

"And I've also sort of started seeing a therapist," I blurt gracelessly, feeling my cheeks flush. I reach for another fry for something to do.

Jenna leans forward and rests her arms on the table in front of her, a disbelieving smile curving her lips. "Really, Elena?" she breathes.

I nod, squirming a little under her scrutiny.

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear that," she says, grinning ear to ear. She crunches into another fry. "So how's it going so far?"

"Well, we've only had one session," I qualify, "but honestly, Jenna, it was amazing. He was so easy to confide in, and it felt so great to talk to somebody else about it after all this time. And get this, he actually lost his wife in a car accident a few years ago. It just feels like he really gets it, you know? In a way that maybe somebody else in his situation just couldn't." I hear myself gushing but I can't help it. "Plus, he's Caroline's future brother-in-law, so it feels kind of safer somehow. Like he has more of a vested interest in helping me out. He stayed a whole extra hour with me past my allotted time. He's even giving me a discount because I'm Caroline's friend. It's just kind of…" I catch something in Jenna's smile and decide I need to cut it off before I turn into a puddle of goo.

"Great." I laugh. "It's just kind of _great_." I feel a wide grin taking over my face against my will. "Sorry," I add, feeling self-conscious. "It's just working out really well."

Jenna leans forward and grabs both of my hands in a squeezing-tight grip.

"Elena, I cannot tell you how good it is to see you smile like this again. Run, don't walk to your next appointment." She leans back and throws her hands up in the air. "If this is what he can do for you after just one session, I can't imagine what you seeing him on a regular basis could accomplish! Elena, I'm so happy for you."

I feel myself glowing. And it _is_ good to smile again. To _really_ smile with actual hope that things will get better: that _I_ will get better.

The waitress brings our dinners, along with Jenna's second and my first drink. My mouth waters like a Pavlovian dog at the mere sight of my lemon drop martini. I got a beet salad of course, and Jenna got the melted gorgonzola and glazed balsamic filet mignon with crispy jalapeño-cheese potatoes. The potatoes look so good, I ask the waitress to bring me a side of them before she even leaves the table.

Jenna appraises my salad with a sour look on her face that can only be described as scorn, and I raise my fork to stop it. "Ah, ah, ah," I tsk. "There will be no judging of the salad. Not until you've had a taste for yourself." I stab a bite onto my fork and offer it to her. "Interested?"

"Hell no! Why would I want a bite of a salad when I have a delicious cheese-covered steak in front of me? Shoo." She waves my bite away and I am more than happy to enjoy it myself.

"Your loss," I mumble through my mouthful with a shrug. People really just don't get it.

We chat between bites, passing the minutes with easy conversation as the restaurant begins to fill around us. We both polish off our plates and are contemplating dessert when I catch the sight of dark hair and the flash of a familiar profile at the bar behind our table.

"No way. Is that…?" I start, letting the dessert menu slip from my hands.

"What? Who?" Jenna asks as she cranes her neck around to see what's behind her.

"I think that's my therapist right there." But I can definitely see that it's him. He's wearing a black button down this time, with dark jeans. He looks like he is in deep conversation with the man sitting next to him, his brow furrowed in concentration—distress? His friend winces and nods. What are they talking about? Maybe that's the psychiatrist friend of his Stefan was talking about.

"That's him. The 30-something dark-haired guy in the black button-down sitting next to the man with the brown hair." I resist the urge to point.

"_That_ guy?" Jenna asks, an air of disbelief in her voice. "_That's_ your therapist?" She stares for another second before turning and flopping back down on her bench. "You mean the smoking hot piece of sex on a stick talking to that tasty-looking dreamboat? Holy freakin' smokes Elena you didn't tell me he looked like _that_!"

I flush crimson. "Well, what was I supposed to say?" I hiss at her, mortified that he might hear us even though it's almost humanly impossible. "I'm not supposed to think he's hot, he's my therapist." I smooth my napkin over my lap, trying to recover some dignity. "Besides, I'm trying to focus on getting better, and if I think too much about it, I'll just end up getting distracted."

"Damn, Elena," Jenna breathes as she peeks over the top of the booth again, a breath away from cat-calling.

She takes a beat, and then seems to decide something. "Well I don't know about you, but this is just the kind of distraction I am in desperate need of right now." She finishes her drink in one gulp and moves to stand up, but my hand flashes out to grab her forearm and stop her.

"Wait, what are you doing?" I ask, even though I've got a pretty good idea of the answer.

"I'm ordering my dessert," she says wickedly, and I feel mild panic course through me.

"Hold the phone, Jenna! You can't just go hit on my therapist right now!"

"It's not your therapist I'm after, it's that friend of his with the five o-clock shadow and that sexy hair I can't wait to get my fingers in," she says with a wink.

I feel a surge of relief course through me. I clear my throat and smooth a hand down my hair.

"C'mon. You can have him introduce me," she says, locking my hand in a death grip and dragging me from my chair toward the bar.

"Jenna!" I hiss, but she is deaf to my protests, her one-track mind already hungrily eyeing her prize.

* * *

_Author's Note: Cliffhanger! Now that's not a very nice way to treat all of you wonderful people. I'm sorry, but it had to be done. Damon is in the next chapter, so hang in there. And who might his friend be, I wonder? _

_Follow/Favorite to find out what happens next! And please leave me a review if you like what you're reading! They keep my writing-inspiration-tank full and a smile on my face!_

_And dearest Trogdor19: Without you, this fic would be nothing but unironically lumpy taxidermy shriked into jerky. A punching bag, a wooden bat, and bucket of un-crushed beer cans to you. May the unicorn's technicolor lightsaber lull you to peaceful sleep, and may it's aim be faithful, true, swift, and deadly._

_Xoxo, Nightlight  
_


	6. Ch 6 - The Ambush and the Goodbye

**Chapter 6: The Ambush and the Goodbye**

Before I have a second to blink or properly process what's happening, Jenna's dragged me across the entire room and I'm standing close enough to see that the collar of Damon's shirt is folded crookedly. My fingers itch to fix it even as I toss a desperate glance back toward the safety of the booth.

Why do I feel like I'm back in a locker-lined hallway, getting ready to pull a Sadie Hawkins on some dreamy boy?

Jenna drops my hand, but the second I start to retreat she clears her throat conspicuously so they turn around, looking confused and mildly irritated. Damon's casual glance sharpens at the sight of me, his eyes widening with recognition. A shiver races up my spine.

God he is even more beautiful than I remembered.

"Elena? Wow. I mean, what are you doing here?" he stammers. He is obviously surprised, but doesn't seem entirely unhappy to see me standing there. I feel anxiety deflate from my body like a balloon.

I cross my arms as my expression relaxes into a playful smirk. "I guess I could ask you the same thing. This is _my_ bar after all. I never see you here." Damon flashes an annoyed glare at his companion that I don't completely understand and opens his mouth to speak.

"I'm Jenna," she interrupts, holding a hand out for him to shake. He shuts his mouth and smiles good-naturedly at me, then at her. "Well it's very nice to meet you, Jenna," he says indulgently, his eyes dancing. "As in Elena's _aunt_ Jenna?"

"Wow. You remembered that?" I blurt, too stunned to edit.

"I try not to sleep through _everything_ people say to me," he says. His voice is lazy with sarcasm, but something about the way he looks at me makes my skin spark with awareness.

Jenna clears her throat again, and it breaks me out of my confusion over my body's unsettling reaction to Damon. "And who might this friend of yours be?" I remember to ask.

"Oh, of course, I'm so sorry." Damon says. "This is my friend Alaric."

"Hi," Jenna says a little too quickly, holding her hand out to him.

An easy dimpled smile breaks out over square-jawed, clean-cut face. He really is handsome too; I can see why Jenna zeroed in on him.

"Hi," he returns. "Aunt Jenna was it?" He smiles mischievously, taking her hand. "Well it's very nice to meet you. You can call me Ric. Should I call you Auntie?"

"Hahaha, _no_," she says. "Just Jenna, or I'll start calling you Al."

"Fair enough," Ric laughs. "Jenna it is." They stare at each other, their hands still clasped in a long-over handshake.

Sheesh, what is it about this bar that seems to inspire immediate love connections?

Now Damon is the one clearing his throat. "Ric, this is Elena. She's my future sister-in-law Caroline's best friend." I note that he didn't introduce me as a client. Huh.

_Oh_, I realize. It must be that client/therapist confidentiality thing.

"I'm also a recent client of his," I add, and the smile he gives me tells me he is grateful I caught on. I give him a private little nod and wink.

"So, what are you ladies up to this fine Saturday evening?" Alaric asks, sipping at his drink.

"Actually, we're celebrating. Jenna just moved into town for an extended stay."

"Oh really?" Alaric asks, feigning nonchalance through a wide smile that lights up his already strikingly handsome face. "And what inspired this move, might I ask?"

Jenna rolls her eyes.

"A…recent change in her job prospects," I improvise. "And a break-up."

"A break-up?" Alaric asks. "How recent, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Yesterday?" Jenna says, shrugging her shoulders and flashing an apologetic smile. It comes out sounding like a question even though she's providing an answer.

Alaric whistles. "Wow. Fresh," he says. "So is this the type of get-together where you gals sit around and drink cosmos and talk about what a shithead this…?"

"Logan. Logan Fell." I supply.

"And it's a whiskey sour for me and a lemon drop for Elena, if you're asking," Jenna adds. "Cosmos are gross."

"_Logan Fell_?" Alaric says, his name rolling harshly over his tongue like a particularly foul tasting medicine. "Frankly I'm surprised that a beautiful girl like you would ever date a guy with such a dumb name."

"Says the guy with the weird-ass Viking name," Damon pipes up, and Ric punches him hard on the shoulder.

I can't help but laugh as he rubs his injury. He is smirking lazily, satisfied with himself about his joke.

"Wow. Well it's nice to know the sanity of my niece is in such mature hands, Damon," Jenna says. Damon smiles widely, as Alaric throws his head back in a hearty laugh.

I don't even realize I am looking at him until Damon's eyes find and then lock with mine. Even through the ghost of a smile he is still wearing I see that there is something bright in them when they are focused on me, something consuming and vivid that I can't name. I feel a jolt of electricity rush up my spine like it did at his office when he shook my hand. _Christ, he isn't even touching me this time._

It also dawns on me that Alaric has done most of the talking, while Damon has remained oddly quiet. Uncharacteristically so, based on what I know of his demeanor from our session. I wonder if he's only outgoing when he's got his therapist hat on, if this more reserved person is what he's really like. I think of his wife, and I wonder if he was always this way.

At that exact moment, the couple sitting next to Damon and Alaric gets up, and since we just so happened to be standing there, we are next in line to take their seats. No one says anything for a moment, but then another couple behind us sees us hesitate and starts to move in. Jenna takes a stealthy step toward the open seats and leans in between them, laying claim.

"I don't suppose you'd mind if we joined whatever bromance-y date you two are on, would you? We're kind of done with the shithead-bashing portion of the evening and are on to the drink-until-you-forget-you-were-dumped part. It'd be nice to have some company."

My face gets hot at Jenna's daring. Girlfriend is dangerous when she's got nothing to lose. But Alaric motions to the seat she is currently claiming with her hip.

"By all means, have a seat. Damon and I are old pros at drinking to forget and could probably teach you a thing or two."

I chance a glance at Damon, and when I do I see him smiling at me again, but there is a haunted look in his eye. I am reminded of how much he has needed to forget.

I need to get some air.

"I'm gonna go talk to our waitress and make sure she knows we didn't dine and ditch," I say. "Save me a seat."

I head back to our booth, my heart racing—whether from the exhilaration of this evening's strange turn of events or the _something_ that might have been in Damon's expression, I can't be sure.

I settle our bill with the waitress, and when I come back to the bar to find them, I notice that everyone has moved down so that Jenna is on the right-hand side of Alaric, Damon is on his left-hand side, and there is an empty barstool waiting for me to Damon's left. I gulp.

Damon is listening in on Jenna and Alaric's conversation with passive interest, spinning his drink on the surface of the bar. He looks sort of far away. I wonder what he is thinking about.

He glances back toward the table I was sitting at, and when he sees me coming a smile curves his lips. My breath catches in my lungs at the sight of him watching me, all his energy and focus directed at me. I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly nervous. What am I going to say to him? Are we going to talk like we did at the office? Is he going to be quiet and reserved like he seems to be when he's not in a session?

Is this going to be horribly awkward?

I slip onto the stool next to him and cross my legs, smooth out my skirt. There is a lemon drop martini waiting on the bar in front of me.

"I took the liberty of ordering this for you," he says, motioning to the drink as he turns to face me. "But feel free not to drink it," he adds before leaning in for a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm thinking your aunt will be more than happy to polish it off for you if you decide to get something else."

His breath fans lightly against my face, the spicy smell of his aftershave filling my nostrils. Why does he have to smell so good?

I laugh tightly, wondering if he'll ever get to know what my laugh sounds like when I'm not an anxious wreck. "True," I agree. "Thank you though. I was going to order another anyways," I say.

He looks at me strangely, resting his temple on his knuckles as he studies me through squinted eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're nervous, aren't you?" he asks.

"Am I that obvious?" I laugh.

"Let's see," he says, pretending to consider. "Flushed cheeks, inability to sustain direct eye contact. Plus your foot has been bouncing ever since you sat down," he says, motioning to my traitorously bobbing heel.

I hold it still immediately, glaring playfully at him.

"Well, well, well," I say, wiggling my finger at him in mock censure. "Aren't you tricky, mister therapist-man. That's kind of unfair, you know. Using your professional mind-reading super powers on me outside of the office."

"Mind reading, huh?" he says, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "How did you know? Did I leave my psychic certification out somewhere you could see it?"

"Isn't that kind of what you guys do?" I ask, only half-joking. "I mean, you know all about the human mind, what makes it tick, how to recognize when something is off and how to get it back on track."

"Something like that," he says, bringing his drink to his lips but not taking his eyes off of me. I feel my skin tingling.

"What?" I finally ask, ruining the mistrustful scowl I was working on by grinning like a loon instead.

"Nothing." He is smiling too. "Just taking a moment to put my super powers to good use."

"Oh really?" I say. "And what did you discover?"

He studies me again for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. Even when they are sparkling with mirth there is something guarded about them, something hidden and mysterious. I suddenly wish the ability to read minds were an actual possibility.

And then the playfulness in his expression morphs somehow, his eyes suddenly storming with an intensity that raises goosebumps along my arms, makes the hair at the base of my scalp tingle. I find myself having a moment of irrational panic that maybe he actually _can_ read minds.

I see him swallow hard, and then he is shaking his head, as though brushing something off. "Nothing," he says, flashing me a shuttered smile before he downs the rest of his drink in one gulp and motions toward the bartender for another one. "Must not be working today," he says with a laugh, but it sounds forced.

I have no idea what just happened, and I don't feel right pressing him about it. I go for the small talk.

"What are you drinking?" I ask.

"Hmm?" he says distractedly, looking as though I've interrupted some very deep thoughts. "Oh, bourbon," he says, recovering himself, but just barely.

"Bourbon?" I try again. "That's a little old fashioned isn't it? Kind of Mad Men-ish of you with the amber liquid served straight."

"My father drinks it," he says simply. He smiles weakly but I am not convinced. Now he is the one avoiding direct eye contact.

An idea crosses my mind.

"Damon," I say gently, reaching my hand out to curl my fingers around his arm that is resting on the bar, dipping my head to find his eyes.

When I make contact, his eyes jump to my hand resting on him, and then to my face. How can eyes that look so transparent be so difficult to read?

His skin feels so warm under my hand, and I resist the urge to rub my fingers experimentally over it.

"Is this weird for you? Seeing a client outside of work like this? In a social setting?" I take my hand off his arm and lean back, giving him some space. He just watches me. "Because I'd understand if it was, Damon. You don't have to pretend it's not, for my sake."

He stares at me, looking a little shell shocked before he recovers himself, scrubbing the back of his neck before chuckling guiltily.

"Now look who's the mind reader," he says with a hesitant grin, but this time his eyes are smiling too.

"It's just that I've never been in this situation before." He shoves his hand through his hair again, mussing it appealingly. "You are sort of a friend by proxy, I mean, Caroline is family and I know you and Stefan are also close. I've been hearing about you for months, I just never really had a chance to meet you, and then you were in my office and..." he trails off. "I just don't know. I'm not sure how friendly I can be with you without ruining therapy for you." He laughs lightly through the worried look that is creasing his brow. "And I'd really hate to do that since I know you are going to do amazing in it."

"Well how about this," I say. "Treat me like you would a friend, and we won't talk about my therapy when we're together outside the office. And when we're in the office, we'll only focus on the therapy stuff."

"I guess that's probably the best way," he considers, still sounding conflicted.

"We have the wedding coming up soon, too," I add. "We need to start planning some stuff for the shower, talk about the bachelor and bachelorette parties. You know, compare notes." I lean in again, my voice softer. "I don't want you to feel like you have to walk on eggshells around me either, Damon," I say, throwing his wording from our session back at him.

He just stares at me, a bemused look on his face as a smile begins to tug his lips.

"I think I can try that," he says.

"Good," I say with the least flirtatious smile I can manage, tipping my martini at him in salute.

He tilts his bourbon in response, his smile looking like something he is trying to conceal, a secret he is letting me in on as it peeks from behind his curling lips, his dancing eyes.

A secret he is sharing with me.

We drink.

To friendship, to eggshell-free feet.

And not—I have to remind myself-to the warm feeling that is blooming in my chest as we talk, the deep and beautiful shimmering ice-blue of his eyes, the sight of his masculine body wracked in easy laughter just for me.

Certainly not to that.

###

When we all finally tumble out of the Square it is close to midnight and I'm redlining the edge of "buzzed" and "drunk". Damon's probably right around the same, or at least that's what I'm gathering from what little I've begun to know about his personality.

Jenna and Alaric on the other hand, while thankfully _not_ at the sloppy and obnoxious phase, are clearly on the wrong side of sobriety and happy as clams about it. Jenna is a little more giggly, a little more willing to take advantage of Alaric's tall frame to support her slightly unsteady feet. Alaric doesn't appear to be able to take his eyes off of her long enough to form a complaint about it, even if he'd wanted to.

Damon and I watch them as they laugh and whisper to each other, unable to break physical contact for longer than a few seconds at a time. I am suddenly very aware of my hands, how awkward and empty they feel.

Damon's hands are stuffed casually into his front pockets, so I try to think of what laid-back Elena would do. I settle on hooking my thumb through my purse straps with my right hand and letting my left arm hang as naturally as possible at my side. It is a familiar stance, but somehow in this moment it feels oddly foreign, like when you think too much about a word and it suddenly seems so strange you can't believe you never noticed it before.

Damon turns from the happy couple, grinning as though enjoying a private joke. When he turns to share it with me, I smile back.

Damon takes a step forward, closer to me, swaying slightly as he leans even further to whisper in my ear. "I've never seen him like this," he says, but I barely register the words over the husky timbre of his voice and the way it is making my inhibition-free mind forget what it is and isn't supposed to be feeling. Imagining. Like those soft-looking lips closing over mine, how warm his body might be if it was pressed against me.

He pulls back and looks at me in a way that reminds me that he formed words I should probably be attempting to decipher and respond to. Thankfully he goes on, rescuing me.

"He was married before," he says, his bright smile faltering slightly to leave a more thoughtful one in its wake. "To a woman named Isobel. She cheated on him and left." He looks over at them again. "It's good to see him happy with a girl."

"I think saying they hit it off would be sort of a staggering understatement at this point," I agree, unable to stop myself from grinning at them as they type their numbers into each other's phones, stealing flirty glances at each other as they do.

When I turn back at him, he is staring at me, his face is flushed but his expression serious once more. Instead of looking away or trying to diffuse the awkwardness of being caught staring, his face brightens into an open smile that I feel radiating inside my chest, into my extremities. I smile back, but my brain is empty of words.

Jenna laughs at something Alaric is saying, and as it echoes into the crisp night, I see the wistfulness that is playing at the edges of Damon's eyes, a tiny surface scratch on what I can only imagine is an ocean of yearning. My heart breaks for him. For the pain of everything he has lost.

"I had a great time tonight," I say without planning to, wanting to make him feel better. My voice is gentle and low, seductive sounding to my horrified ears. I clear my throat, attempting a graceful recovery. "I mean, it was great to finally spend a little time with you after hearing so much about you for so long."

"It's funny, isn't it?" he says with a smile, but his eyes are still tinged with longing as they stare out into the night. He turns back to me. "We could have met so many different ways, and yet we didn't until you walked into my office." He looks down and shuffles his feet. I notice he is wearing worn black motorcycle boots with silver rings on the sides. God I love a man in motorcycle boots.

_Geez get a grip_. Maybe I am more buzzed than I thought if I'm getting turned on over his _shoes_.

He seems to pull up a bit from whatever thoughts he was lost in, lifting his head to meet my eyes as a light smile plays over his face.

"All that to say, I think we would have been friends a lot sooner if we had. Met earlier, I mean."

I return his grin with one of my own.

"I think so too."

At that moment, Jenna appears at my side, arm and arm with Alaric.

"I think, sadly, it is time for you to take your dear old aunt home, 'Lena. I'm _sooooo_ tired."

She hooks her arm around mine as she releases Alaric's, and I give Damon a good-natured eye-roll before smiling indulgently at Jenna.

"Of course, old lady. Let's go," I say, flashing Damon a smile. I take a few steps in the direction of my apartment before turning to call over my shoulder. "See you soon Damon. Oh, and Alaric, nice to meet you."

"You too, Elena!" Alaric calls, waving a tad more enthusiastically than he might have done if he wasn't at least one sheet deep against the wind. "And I'll call you later, _Auntie_!" he teases.

"Sure thing, _Al_," she says, dragging me with her as she turns her whole body towards them and unleashes her most seductive flirt-glare as we stumble backwards.

My eyes stray naturally to Damon, whose intent gaze somehow finds and locks onto mine as he lifts his arm to wave goodbye. It feels so intimate, this tiny, private moment in the midst of mine and Jenna's chaotic exit. It makes my blood rush in my veins.

And suddenly I am glad to go, glad to get a little perspective on this strange night.

On the strange feelings I am having trouble not feeling.

###

I get Jenna tucked in after insisting she take two aspirin and guzzle a large glass of water, and then I do the same. I undress and get ready for bed, feeling so tired but also oddly energized by the excitement of this unusual day. Of Jenna's unexpected arrival, of the spontaneous and fun night we had, of her instantaneous connection with Alaric.

Of spending time with Damon.

I slip into my bed and lay back with my hands behind my head on the pillow. I don't feel like sleeping, but for once it has nothing to do with the fear of what might happen if I do. I see a swirling montage of blue eyes and black hair, a sly twinkle, a piercing stare, the way his muscles moved appealingly under his shirt and the way he absentmindedly twisted his drink on the bar.

The way his lips curve when he smiles, but not always on both sides, as though half his good humor was still waiting to be coaxed out, discovered.

I didn't want to find myself attracted to Damon, but I can no longer deny that I am.

How does he feel about me?

I think of how he managed to avoid any direct questions about himself, how he always deflected them and changed the subject to something about me. My friendship with Caroline, funny stories about college and that confusing time afterwards when I was cutting my teeth at Klaus' office, working as an assistant to an agent there before I was promoted.

And then, the progression of my relationship with Jenna. The sometimes overwhelming but mostly healing experience of moving to New York all by myself, the conflicted mixture of resolve and sadness I felt at using my family's money to buy myself an apartment in the city I loved, had become successful in.

I realize that I barely learned anything new about him at all.

I think of his face, the elusiveness that is always playing along the edges of even his most transparent moments. Does he do that on purpose?

Did he not want me to get to know him better?

The thought drops like a stone in my stomach. Of course I had a great time, all I did was talk about myself. And Damon is so obviously attractive, how could I not feel a spark when he seemed so interested in me, so eager to know all about my life? I cross my arms over my eyes and groan aloud to myself. I committed the one cardinal rule of the therapist/client relationship.

Don't have a crush on your therapist.

And this is why: he's an expert at conversation, at making people feel valued and listened to. He does it all day long, with people he truly cares about and people that he doesn't.

Does he care about me?

I think about the way he looked at me, the way his eyes took turns burning and disarming me, searching me and discovering me.

Maybe. Maybe so.

Was it friendly? Or something more?

It's impossible to know.

I roll over and reach for my phone, needing to know something. I tap the icon for the internet browser, then the search bar, and type, "therapist client relationship".

Nothing comes up but some insider-y articles about building trust with your clients, how to handle people who don't want to be in therapy, etc.

I pause.

I think about the way I felt when we were leaving The Square. That brief but oh so vivid image of his mouth moving with mine, the solid length of his body against me as his arms pulls me closer.

The cursor blinks accusingly at me.

I feel a flush rise to my cheeks in the semi-darkness as I amend my search. I type, "therapist client romantic relationship," pressing the "search" command button before I have a chance to think better of it.

This time, a slew of chat room conversations come up in addition to the articles. Apparently this is a common situation. I scan some of them half-heartedly, noting the many nay-sayers that condemn such relationships, but I also notice that most often these are established therapist/client relationships that form _in_ therapy. _That is kind of creepy_.

_I've only had one session with him_, I reason. _And I've actually spent more time with him outside his office than I have inside it at this point_.

That has to count for something, doesn't it?

Can't he just be my friend that I happen to see in therapy, and if something happens, then…

_Then…_

I am just about to put my phone back down on my bedside table, my curiosity satisfied for the time being, when an article at the very bottom of the screen catches my eye, "APA Regulations: Regarding Therapist/Client Sexual Relationships"

I open the article.

"…The American Psychological Association has developed and enforced strict sanctions against therapists who willingly enter in romantic or sexual relationships of any kind with their clients. There is now a required two-year period beginning after the termination of therapy in which there must be no contact between the client and therapist. Any therapist who is discovered to have willingly engaged in a sexual relationship with one of his or her clients prior to the end of this mandatory two-year period will lose his or her license to practice therapeutic psychology immediately and indefinitely."

My mouth goes dry.

2 years. Lose his license. Immediately and indefinitely.

Never. I can never let that happen.

More importantly, _Damon_ would never let it happen. He would never risk his career on a woman.

On me.

Whatever…_something_…I imagined I saw from him for me must have been just that. My imagination.

I roll over and place my phone face down on the bedside table before switching off the lamp, feeling suddenly more sober than I've been all night.

Friendship. I roll it around my mind, repeat it silently like a mantra. It is the end of what Damon and I can be.

I let it seep into the spaces between my thoughts, willing it to find it's way to my heart.

Friendship. "_I think I can try that_," he'd said.

Can I?

It is an end. But if I can control my feelings for him, it could also be a beginning.

I go over the night in my mind, trying to scrub my memories of the feelings I shouldn't feel, trying to make them fit the version I'm allowed now.

I think of his face as I left with Jenna. His arm raised in a tiny goodbye, just for me.

Goodbye.

I listen to the city outside my window, uncharacteristically quiet on this cool, clear night.

_Lose his license._

Never.

_Immediately and indefinitely._

Not ever.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hello my lovies! I just need to tell you all that I have been absolutely flabbergasted by your response to this fic. Over 100 Follows! Thank you so much for taking the time to review, follow, and favorite this fic. Each one means so much to me. AND, it is also so super-duper motivating! I managed to write two new chapters this week!_

_I need to say an EXTRA thank you to Trogdor19, who is not only the most incredible beta in existence, she is also a great friend. She posted a rec for this fic in the Author's note for her new Delena one-shot, Willing, which is HOT HOT HOT. DAMN it's hot. Read it, and you will NOT be sorry you did. In fact, I dare you to read it just once._

_Trogdor, for you, an adult-sized ball pool with a topless Ric and Damon in it, each holding an ice cream cake in one hand and supporting a life-sized cardoard cut-out of Julie Plec holding up a "Sire Bond?" notecard in the other that you can use your zombie-apocalypse chainsaw on. Or your tomahawk. Shirt and/or pants optional. Your call cause it's your party. You get the dark chocolate fountain and the ponies after we've finished this fic, because we have to save SOMETHING for THAT party._

_Till next week..._

_XOXO,_

_Nightlight_


	7. Ch 7 - The Storm and the Slippery Slope

**Chapter 7: The Storm and the Slippery Slope**

I am standing in the quiet hallway directly outside Damon's office. After talking about my deceased family for the better part of the last hour and fifteen minutes—a forty-five minute improvement from last week—you'd think I'd feel a little more sad, more wistful, or even just exhausted.

Instead, I am trying very hard to ignore the ungodly delicious picture my therapist makes as he leans against the open door frame of his office.

His whole body exudes confidence and ease; a light smile playing on his closed lips, the thick sweep of his lashes resting lightly and even a little lazily as they gently frame his ocean-colored eyes.

_Dear God, I am so screwed._

"Thanks for a great session today, Elena," Damon says, but why he's thanking _me_, I have no idea.

"Ummm…you're welcome?" I reply, laughing. "I feel like I didn't really do anything but relive old memories today. No major revelations or anything."

"That's okay though, Elena," he says. "All of it is important for me to know, and also for you to remember. It's just…" he dips his head and runs a hand through his hair as he searches for his next words. I've noticed that it's sort of a habit of his.

He leans forward and peers into the hallway, presumably to double check there is no one within earshot. I glance after him, finding it just as empty as it was a second ago.

He returns to his former position against the doorframe, but this time when he speaks his voice is lower, a gentle rumble that I'm sure is meant to be soothing but sends goosebumps raking over my arms instead.

"It's going to be hard for a while, Elena," he says, fixing me with an earnest, almost apologetic stare. "All those things you told me about your life before the accident, your childhood. It doesn't seem that difficult to talk about now, but it will…bring things up."

"You mean the attacks?" I say slowly.

"They've been known to increase." He gives me a pained look. "Just in the very beginning when everything is being brought up and reexamined."

I swallow hard and nod, trying to absorb this information. _More attacks_. I guess when I thought about finally getting past all of this, I never really considered what exactly it might take. Of course I knew that I'd still be struggling with them after I started getting help, but I expected their number to decrease steadily rather than spike. The thought makes me jittery.

"I promise it's necessary, Elena," he continues. "Otherwise everything remains mis-categorized in your mind. It doesn't have a chance to be filed under the proper headings, so to speak. Does that make sense?" I nod, because it does, even though I don't like it.

"That's what we are going to be trying to do, among many other things. To bring all of these memories up again and then learn to relate to them and deal with them properly, as opposed to following your mind's current channel and ending up in an episode." He pauses to look me over.

"Are you still with me?" he says, and I can tell he's not just being polite.

I consider my answer. I feel a disconcerting combination of dread and weariness settling heavily over my shoulders. But there is something else too, a steely resolve braiding itself into my vertebrae. If this is what it takes, then this is what I have to do.

"Yeah, Damon, I'm with you. I want…" I think of Caroline, Jenna. "No, I _need_ to get better. If this is how it has to happen, so be it."

He smiles at me, a strange but beautiful mixture of pride and sorrow and solidarity swirling in his irises. I smile back, both steady and shaky with the unfamiliar feeling of my new resolution; the overwhelming threat of what lies ahead.

"Oh, I've got something for you," he says, giving me a moment to breathe myself back to calm as he pushes off the door frame, going to the puzzling oxymoron that is his neatly-strewn desk. Miraculously, he only has to rummage for a few seconds before he is headed back to me, a business card in his hands.

"Here," he says, handing it to me. "This is my after hours line. But you can use it anytime. If you feel an attack coming on, just call and I can talk you through it."

"Thanks," I say, opening my purse and placing it in the side pocket so it has a chance of being located sometime within 24 hours after I begin searching for it.

When I look up to face him again, his face looks relaxed and playful, the tangle of conflicting emotions I saw earlier now dissipated. I wonder why I have the niggling sensation that I'm forgetting something.

By the time I realize that that _thing_ I had forgotten was _my cue_ _to leave_, any hope of avoiding an awkward goodbye is officially gone.

"Hey, I'm actually headed out. Want me to walk you to the curb?" His tone is casual but his eyes are dancing with repressed amusement. Yup, he was on to me. I smile. Damn him and his supernatural psychologist-y people-reading skills.

"Yeah sure, why not," I say, lifting a shoulder in mock indifference.

"Lemme just grab a couple things," he says, and heads back to his desk. He shuts down his computer before retrieving a set of keys and a scuffed brown leather billfold from the top drawer of his desk. He sets them on the cluttered surface while he picks up the black leather jacket that was draped over his desk chair and pulls it on. He wore his leather boots with the silver rings today, too.

I deliberately look away.

"Shall we?" he says with a smirk that I have to try very hard not to think of as sexy. Especially with all of the dark, dangerous leather framing it so appealingly.

"We shall," I say, my voice coming out huskier than I intended. I begin leading the way down so he doesn't see my face as I try to recover. He catches up with one long stride and falls in step beside me, so close I can almost feel his warmth against my shoulder.

I clear my throat, trying to ignore the way my heart is stuttering in my chest.

_Dammit, this is harder than I thought._

Ever since my little late-night google quest, I've been practicing looking forward to my next session with Damon with as much detached professionalism as I could muster. I honestly felt like I could do it, like I could let the knowledge in my rational mind dictate reason to the fluttering feelings stirring in my belly, the blissful and tremulous lightness tugging at my chest whenever he came to mind.

I was incredibly relieved to find that once the session got going and the questions began, I didn't have to force anything. I allowed myself to get immersed in the stories of my childhood, the sincerity of his interest spurring me on. Where it mattered, everything still came wonderfully naturally.

In therapy, I liken my attraction to Damon to the low rumbling of a far away storm. I hear it, I sense it in the air, but it still seems vague and unmenacing—under control. It's never close enough to detract from the work we're doing, to be worth abandoning the trust I've begun to build with him.

The way I see it, as long as I can keep sending that storm in the other direction, I will have a chance at waiting it out. Giving it a chance to break up on its own.

It will. It has to.

But then…

_But then_.

Once the session was over and the conversation moved to more casual fare, there was nothing left to distract me. And, as it turns out, having all of my attention free when I'm in the same room with Damon is apparently not the best idea if I'm hoping to keep my thoughts friendly and professional. I'd forgotten just how good he smelled, how arresting and multifaceted the color of his eyes can be, the critical-thought-diffusing, femininity-awakening masculinity he exudes so effortlessly.

"You're quiet," Damon says, jarring me from my errant thoughts. "I hope I didn't spook you too much with all the ominous 'it will get harder' talk. I'm going to be with you every step of the way, you know that right?"

"Oh. Yeah, of course. Of course I do. Know that, I mean," I say, hoping my stammering comes off as "anxious" instead of "caught red-handed while considering the severity and capacity for distractibility of my therapist's unavoidable hotness."

"I'm just still processing it, I think." I flash him a shy smile from under my lashes and let my hair fall over my face, hoping it will conceal the blush that is starting to creep up my neck and over my face. He smiles back at me with a warm but slightly puzzled smile that tells me he at least noticed the color in my cheeks (if not, mercifully, the content of my thoughts).

"Fair enough," he says. He still looks curious but thankfully, he doesn't press me.

When we reach the elevator, he hesitates.

"Would you rather take the stairs?" he asks.

"What? No, why?" I ask, confused. Does he think I need to lose weight or something?

"Well I was just wondering if small spaces are a thing for you now. After the accident, I mean." He scrubs a hand through his hair. Maybe I can add "nervousness" to the list of triggers for that particular behavior. "A lot of people who went through something like what you experienced have trouble with elevators, subways, sometimes even bathroom stalls. Things like that."

"Oh," I say, relieved to be on even footing again. "No. Well, yes, I guess. I can do elevators no problem. But no on subways. And of course water is a bit of a hot-button."

"That makes sense," he says, flashing me a quick grin as he reaches forward to press the "down" button on the elevator.

"What?" I glare at him, recognizing something in his expression that tells me there is more to what he is thinking than he is letting on.

"No, it's nothing," he defends unconvincingly. I keep my patented Gilbert Glare trained on him, refusing to let him off the hook. Lucky for him I'm feeling merciful tonight, so I allow a mischievous smile to peek through my otherwise iron-clad façade. A rare gift. He looks me over and his smile widens, as though he is positively tickled at being taken to task.

"You're a mystery to me sometimes, Elena, that's all." I hold eye contact with him, willing him to continue even as my mind races to decipher what he means.

"It's just that, some of the things you are able to do, you shouldn't," he says simply. "What you've been able to accomplish in your life, despite what happened to you…" He shrugs. "I guess it's just kind of amazing."

I can't look away. _Did he just indirectly call me amazing?_

The elevator dings and Damon glances toward the sound reflexively, breaking the spell. The doors slide open and he steps over the threshold.

"After you, m'lady," he says, gesturing and bowing lightly in a way that suddenly reminds me of Stefan. I smile.

"Why thank you," I say, giving him a little nod before I step into the elevator, choosing a neutral spot in the middle where it will be up to him how close or far away from me he wants to stand.

He presses the button for the lobby before walking over to stand next to me, not much further away than we were in the hallway. I try to suppress the grin working its way over my lips. _He is just being friendly_, I remind myself.

I try to tell myself that this is all I want. That even though I may not see it now, I will be okay with only that someday.

But the electricity I feel charging the silence between us betrays me.

###

"…And then he passed out, just like that, mid-rant about how impossible it is to get decent service anywhere anymore, blah blah blah."

I am giggling like an idiot at the thought of Alaric, face down on a bar-top. He seemed so composed at The Square.

"And where were you during all of this, mister?" I tease. "Isn't it sort of your job to stop people from acting out avoidance behaviors, like, oh, I don't know, drinking to the point of spontaneous unconsciousness?"

He shoots me a guilty look from under his lashes, stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "Well, I _may_ have been partaking in a little avoidance behavior myself," he says contritely. "Although I never could do half as much damage as Ric," he qualifies. "When he wants to get drunk, he goes after it with the focus of an Olympic athlete in training."

"Well no wonder he and Jenna get along so swimmingly," I say.

"No pun intended," Damon adds.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"Nothing, stupid joke," Damon says shaking his head.

And then it dawns on me. I feel a giddy grin spreading across my face. "Oh. Oh no…" I start.

"Stop it."

"Really? _'Swimmingly' _?" I chuckle mercilessly. "Oh Damon, that's bad." I shake my head in playful disapproval.

"I told you it was stupid." He shrugs nonchalantly, but his cheeks are bright red.

Something about the sight of him trying so hard not to look mortified makes me start laughing so hard I have to double over and clutch my stomach. He starts chuckling along with me, and suddenly we are both giggling like fools in the middle of the sidewalk. But then my humungous bag slips off my shoulder and I lose my balance. My hand strikes out to grab the closest thing I can reach to catch my fall, which just so happens to be Damon's arm. I have a mere second to register the appealing solidity of his muscles under the buttery leather of his jacket before I feel a strong hand wrapping around my upper arm, holding me steady.

"Oh sorry!" I apologize automatically.

"Easy there," he says at the exact same time.

I pull myself up to standing with his help and reposition my bag on my shoulder, but when I look up to thank him, my words catch in my throat. He is so close, I can feel his breath against my face, the delicious smell of his leather jacket mixing with the spicy and intoxicatingly masculine scent that is distinctly Damon.

I gulp heavily. I've never been this close to him. I'm just a tip-toe away from satisfying my suddenly overwhelming curiosity as to the exact stubble-to-softness ratio of his kiss.

His expression is unreadable as he looks down at me. He scans my face, a stormy depth playing just around the edges of his expression. He speaks, breaking me from my thoughts.

"Are you okay?" he asks. He belatedly steps back but his hands stay wrapped around my arms. Though my chest aches at the loss of his body's delicious proximity, I am grateful. What was I expecting might happen?

Damn it I have got to get better at reining myself in.

_Lose his license. Immediately and indefinitely._

_Never, not ever._

I clear my throat and offer him a shy smile. "I'm fine." He drops his hand from my shoulder and I let my hand slip from his forearm.

I stand up a little taller, anxious to get back some of the levity from a few moments before. I pull my coat a little tighter around my body and smooth my skirt, righting myself before tucking an escaped strand of hair back behind my ear. "I guess that's what I get for making fun of your horrible joke."

"Oh c'mon it wasn't that horrible," he defends.

"Hmm I don't know…" I cross my arms over my chest and tap a finger against my temple, my mouth twisted into a pout as I pretend to think.

"On a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give it a respectable 5," I say, repeating his words from our first session back to him.

He throws his head back in a hearty laugh. "Fair enough," he says. His eyes are bright with the echoes of his laughter, his smile beaming wide.

There is a comfortable silence as we smile at each other. A car honks at something as it passes, a rowdy pack of college kids whoop and laugh aloud on the sidewalk across the street from us, their voices blending into the soothing cacophony of this brisk March night.

"I've never seen him act that way over a girl, you know," Damon says suddenly. "Alaric I mean." He looks down briefly and shuffles his feet. "I got to know him sort of after everything went south with Isobel. But I've seen countless girls put the moves on him—while he's been in some pretty questionable states of sobriety, might I add—and he's never seemed all that interested." He shrugs. "He wouldn't just spend a whole evening with a girl and then purposely _not_ take her home unless he really liked her."

"Well that's good to know since Jenna is extremely smitten with him," I say. I lean in and lower my voice conspiratorially. "Just between you and me she asked if we might 'accidentally' run into you guys at The Square one of these nights." Damon chuckles silently and I lean back. "I told her I doubt it because that's the very first time I've seen you there."

"Well I have a feeling you will be seeing a lot more of us there in the future," Damon says with a smirk. "I think a beautiful woman was the only thing that could have broken Ric of his irrational love for the English pub by his apartment. They have a snooker table and Ric is, like, this crazy British-aspiring snooker fiend."

"Snooker? What the heck is that?"

Damon rolls his eyes and scrubs his face with his hand. "You wanna know what it is? It's a more tedious version of pool with different colored balls. That's it. I seriously don't understand why we can't just play pool like normal people. But no. He insists on this hoity-toity white-gloved bullshit as many nights of the week as possible. Right before he gets shitfaced, might I add."

I start giggling, less over the content of what Damon is saying and more because of how openly agitated he is becoming while he's saying it. I've never seen him so impassioned. This must be a long-standing argument.

"I swear he likes it because it's so nerdy and pretentious it practically functions like chick-repellent. Seriously, don't tell Jenna about it or she'll never speak to him again."

"Somehow, I don't think that is going to be a problem," I laugh, "but just in case, his secret's safe with me."

"Just in case," Damon agrees, winking at me.

"So we _will_ be seeing more of you at The Square, then," I say.

"I think you will, yes." Damon says. "I owe your aunt a major debt of thanks for that one. Besides the emasculating horror that is the snooker table, do you have any idea how gross that food is? That place is not doing much to dispel Britain's bad culinary rap, let me tell you." Damon shivers. "I am looking forward to eating a little better in the future," he says, patting his flat stomach.

"It _is_ pretty hard to beat The Square when it comes to food," I agree. And before I can even finish my sentence my stomach growls so violently I hope Damon didn't hear it over the street noise. I didn't realize how hungry I was, but now that I'm aware of it, I feel like a black hole has opened up where my abdomen should be.

I exhale on a sigh. I hate to leave Damon's company but I can't deny my suddenly desperate need for sustenance.

"Speaking of food," I say, "is there anywhere around here you could recommend for a quick bite?"

"Hmm, well I'm afraid everything around here is going to fall short of what you're used to, Miss Fancy-Pants Flatiron district," Damon says, wearing that irresistible half-smile of his. "But there are a couple holes in the wall that might surprise you."

"It might surprise _you_ to know that little Miss Fancy-Pants happens to _love_ holes in the wall. I am all about judging a book by its content rather than its cover. It is _kind of_ what I do for a living."

"Fair enough," Damon concedes with a smile. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Hmm," I consider.

"Chinese, Thai, burgers, pizza…" he starts listing.

"Pizza," I interrupt decisively, my mouth watering at the thought of that tomato-y cheesy bread-y goodness.

"Excellent choice. Pizza it is," Damon laughs. "Actually the place I was thinking of is on my way home. Want me to walk you there?"

"Sure, sounds great," I say, trying to hide my delight behind an air of casual nonchalance. "Lead the way."

"This way," he says, jerking his head toward the corner behind him and flashing me an eye-twinkling smirk as he turns.

He lags a little bit so I can catch up, and then we are walking shoulder to shoulder again.

He leads me down the colorful streets, making small talk or pointing out locations of interest or just letting us lapse into companionable silence. Everywhere I look, the Village bustles with a different kind of energy than I'm used to further uptown.

Even though Greenwich Village is now considered a residential district, some of that free-flowing hippie spirit left over from its days as a shelter for the mid-century Beat Generation still lingers in the air. Everywhere you look there are bookshops and tiny theaters and music clubs, with mid-rise apartment buildings stacked on top of the businesses. And with NYU so nearby, there is plenty of youthful energy to go around—people walking and talking and milling around—even if some of the families that call the area home are in for the night.

The streets grow less and less populated as we walk, and soon the silences between us grow longer and longer. I keep waiting for the requisite awkwardness to catch up to us, but it never does. Damon seems just as content as I am to let the sounds of the city do the talking as we stroll, absorbing all it has to tell us along with the warmth of each other's company.

My mind ambles over the information he just shared with me about this location and that, and I think of how lonely his recollections seem. The LP store he likes to visit just to flip through the covers, the park he sits at when he wants to people-watch or think. The boutique coffee shop he visits most mornings to read the paper and enjoy a chocolate croissant along with "the best damn Americano in town."

I wonder if his childhood with Stefan was just as lonely; what their relationship was like before Katherine died and Damon "disappeared", as Stefan puts it. Or how it must have been for him to lose his mother when he was so young. Stefan told me about how she'd died suddenly from a brain aneurism within a year after delivering him, but it's never dawned on me until now that Damon would have been seven years old when it happened.

Young enough to still need his mother desperately. Old enough to feel like his entire world had shattered the way only losing a parent can do.

Thinking of Stefan reminds me about the conversation I am supposed to be having about the wedding shower with Damon. I groan aloud.

"You okay? The restaurant's only another block away from here. You don't need me to carry you the rest of the way, do you?" He smirks playfully at me, his eyes a shimmering grey in the lowlight of the street lamps.

"No," I say, poking a teasing tongue out at him and making a face. "I just remembered that I'm supposed to be talking to you about the wedding shower and Francesca."

"Lemme guess," Damon supplies. "She swooped your planning duties."

"Yes!" I say. "She stopped returning my phone calls after I passed on the basics."

"To be honest, I was personally sort of counting on her doing that." Damon shrugs. "Why should I get in her way? She's kind of an epic party planner."

"That's what I've heard." I'd never been to one of her renowned fundraisers, but I almost could have been based on the amount of details I hear from Caroline about them afterwards.

"But Miss Bride-to-be mentioned that she was hoping the shower would have more of a 'personal touch' than Francesca's usual soirees." I use air quotes for added effect. "And that's where she was hoping _we_ would come in. She said you would be able to reason with Francesca…" I peek up hopefully at him.

"She did, did she?" Damon says, wincing slightly.

"Indeed, she did," I return, smiling at Caroline's penchant for creative problem solving. The fact that she didn't mention this to Damon herself was no doubt a strategic move, seeing as though Damon is probably one of the only people I've ever met who I can imagine being impervious to her type-A take-charge charm. And although I know based on what Stefan tells me that Damon adores her, I'll bet Caroline is saving up favors for more important wedding matters down the line.

"Well, if Caroline wishes it, it shall be done," he says with a laugh, only half-joking because it's pretty much universally true. "So did you have anything in mind?" he asks, turning to me.

"I might," I say through narrowed eyes with a wicked smile.

Damon laughs aloud. "I like the promise I see in that conniving expression of yours. It's Caroline's fault, really, for putting you and me in charge of anything without giving us clear guidelines."

At that, Damon looks up. I don't even have to follow his line of sight to know we're at the pizza place. The smell is so overpoweringly delicious from where we are standing on the curb, I want to moan aloud.

"We're here," he says with a smile, but it fades as he glances down at the pavement. He runs his hand through his hair, scrubbing the back of his neck with his palm. I feel fluttering around the emptiness in my stomach imagining that the sad, conflicted look in his eye might be because we have to part ways.

I can't even find it in me to chastise myself for such wishful thinking. It's been an extraordinarily lovely night, even if it's been filled with stolen moments spent with a borrowed man.

I am just about to open my mouth to tell him some much less specific version of that, when he speaks.

"You know what, do you mind if I join you? I'm pretty starved myself and there's no sense in keeping Caroline on your back when we could just hash this shower stuff out now and be done with it."

I am totally stunned and more pleased than I have any right to be, but I force myself to sound smooth and casual. "Oh, yeah of course. That'd be great actually. The shower is coming up faster than I'd like and I do need a little time to pull my plan together."

"Okay great," he says in a offhanded tone, but I see a flash of something like uncertainty darken his expression before he turns toward the nondescript door emblazoned with the name Dinna's Pizzeria. He pulls it open and steps back to make room for me to pass.

"Ladies first," he says. I feel him distancing himself, putting that familiar guard up that I recognize from our night together at The Square. It's so subtle that I probably wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been paying so much attention, but it's there in the tightness at the edges of his eyes, the stiffness that has begun to clip his movements.

I return his troubled smile with a shy one of my own, taking great care not to touch him as I move past him toward the hostess' stand. I don't know what set off this odd mood swing of his and I don't want to risk exacerbating the situation further.

A heavyset Italian woman sits on a tall stool behind the hostess' podium. When she senses us approaching, she looks up from the book she was reading, moving to set it aside as she prepares to greet us. But when she catches sight of Damon her whole face lights up in joyful recognition and she hops off the chair with her arms outstretched.

"_Signore_ Salvatore!" she says in a heavy Italian accent. "So good to see you, _mi amor!_" She comes around the podium to wrap him in an enthusiastic hug, rocking him back and forth like a long-lost son. He rolls his eyes at me over her shoulder and I smile at the sight, feeling happy to know that Damon may not be as alone in his life as he seems.

When she finally releases him his cheeks are red. "Always a pleasure, Mama D. Sorry it's been so long."

"No apologies," she says, making a face and waving the words away. "I am only happy to see you when I can. And who is the beautiful lady here with you?"

"This is Elena. She's a friend of mine."

Mama D shoots him a conspiratorial look as she reaches for me, taking both my hands in hers. "Elena," she says breathlessly, looking over my face with a motherly fondness that catches me off guard, making my eyes prickle and my throat tighten.

"I am happy to see Damon in the company of such a lovely friend as you." She leaves all hints of romance out of her words, but her face tells me a different story. I can't help but blush, feeling unbearably shy under her scrutiny, and also more than a little embarrassed about her assumptions and what they might do to Damon's already darkened mood.

"Thank you," I say lamely, glancing at Damon with a look that I hope says "I'm sorry" and "rescue me" at the same time. But he eyes are warm again, and something in my chest unlocks just a little. When I turn back to Mama D, the renewed confidence behind my smile is genuine.

"You must be hungry." Mama D says excitedly, clasping her hands in giddy delight as though we are a pair of seven year olds she is about to unleash on a pile of Christmas presents. "Follow me. I have just the table for you."

She picks up two menus from behind the podium and leads us through the relatively empty restaurant to a table near the window, tucked in a cozy nook between a half-wall and a tall potted plant. It has a paid check still sitting on it, but I can tell why she led us here as opposed to one of the other untouched tables. Its privacy from the other tables and proximity to the window make it the best seat in the house.

I love the homey feel of the place, the way the old-fashioned textured glass candles glow orange in the relatively dimly lit space, the fresh white carnations that sit in little white vases next to the salt, pepper and red-pepper-flake shakers that adorn every table. The delightfully practical compromise of real cloth red-and-white-checkered tablecloths covered in a sheet of clear plastic, a single white napkin laid flat so it makes a diamond shape against the square table beneath it.

"I will have Bernardo come and clean this table for you right away. Your usual drink _signore_?"

"Yes, please," Damon says. "And what about you, Elena?"

"What are you drinking?" I ask.

"A beer," he says.

"I'll have one too," I say to Mama D. "I'll try what he's having."

"Very well, _signorina,_" Mama D smiles indulgently. I will be back." And then she's off, moving with a surprising amount of speed and agility for a woman her size.

"You don't even know what I ordered," Damon says.

"I know, but it seems like you've been here before. I'll bet you know what's good."

"A wise woman," he says, leaning back with a playfully smug look.

"So I take it that's Mama Dinna herself," I say.

"Indeed."

"And that you come here pretty often." My cheeks ache from holding back the giggle that is attempting to sneak past my lips.

"You could say that," Damon says nonchalantly, crossing his arms over his chest. He gives me one of his sexy side-grins and I know I've got him back. "It's been awhile, though."

I beam back at him. "So what's good, _signore_?" I ask, mimicking Mama D's distinct pronunciation.

"Everything," he replies.

And just like that, all is well again.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hello fanfic friends! Thank you to everyone who followed and favorited, and ESPECIALLY to all of you who took the time to review! It means so much to me and feeds my little baby muse (who is growing into a demanding fire-breathing feedback-hungry dragon, btw. So please, be kind and feed the beast a morsel before it burns down my house in hungry protest.)_

_The chapter coming up is a continuation of this scene, aka, more Damon and Elena! And it is a pivotal chapter for this fic so if you haven't already, follow and favorite. Plus, the chapter after THAT is a Alaric and Jenna chapter. How can you risk missing out on that? Don't. Just click those little buttons and make my day._

_Trogdor19, where you find the patience to deal with my incessant mongering for ONE MORE PASS of every chapter, I don't know. But thank Macomber and Necessary Elena the Dominatrix Superhero you somehow manage to do it, because I'm pretty sure this chapter would have sucked seven ways past Saturday if it weren't for your wit, wisdom, and just general awesomeness. This chapter is for you, and for Wilbur, and all the other words you rightfully sent to that giant polka party in the sky during Operation Clean Up the Streets. It's a tough job, but somebody had to do it, and I'm so grateful it's you!_

_Till next week, lovies!_

_XOXO_

_Nightlightbright_


	8. Ch 8 - Pizza and the Pact

**Chapter 8: Pizza and the Pact**

"Well, Francesca's gonna throw a shit-fit when she hears all the ways we're hoping to desecrating her perfect little wedding shower," Damon says. "But with a little effort, I think I can persuade her." He leans back and stretches against the back of his chair, looking utterly relaxed and, as a result, ridiculously cocky. "It'll be worth it to watch little brother try to fight back tears in front of all of his friends," he adds with a sarcastic smirk. "I can just see that honest forehead of his, all crinkly with the effort."

I giggle as I lean back contentedly, wiping the edges of my mouth with my napkin before placing it back in my lap. The tangy taste of homemade marinara sauce is still zinging my taste buds, the aftermath of my perfectly crispy/creamy fried zucchini appetizer. My hunger is staved off enough so I'm not uncomfortable, but if that marinara sauce is any indication, I am going to die a thousand happy deaths when my Cappricciosa Pizza shows up.

"He's not gonna _cry_, Damon,"

"Maybe he'll just sniffle a little bit," Damon says hopefully.

"10 bucks says he goes for the awkward brotherly side-hug," I wager.

"No way," Damon shakes his head dismissively. "Stefan and I are way past that shit."

"Oooh, so manly," I say dryly, rolling my eyes.

A muffled ding sounds from my purse, my phone's 'text received' sound. I shoot Damon an apologetic look as I reach down to retrieve it.

"Sorry, I better look at this. Could be Jenna lost in the Bronx after taking the wrong subway line." I smirk.

"By all means," he says.

The text is from Jenna, but thankfully she isn't lost.

_"What time are you going to be home tonight?"_

Hmm. Why is she at home wondering where I am instead of out with Alaric?

"Is everything okay?" Damon asks, and I realize I'm frowning.

"Oh yeah, everything's fine," I say, dashing off a quick response. "I think Jenna's just a little lonely," I confide.

_"Late. There's some ice cream in the freezer. ;)"_

I press send.

"Hmm. I wonder what that means for our love birds?" Damon says.

I shrug. "Yeah. Who knows? Maybe they're taking it slow."

But there is still a hint of trepidation gnawing away at the back of my mind. Jenna isn't the type who willingly takes it slow. God, I hope she didn't get dumped _again_. Twice in the same month would be a tragic new low.

I'm distracted from my worry when a lonely piece of prosciutto-and-basil-wrapped boconccini mozzarella sitting on Damon's plate catches my eye, rejected. The olive oil and balsamic drizzle collect sadly around it, looking like a pool of multicolored tears. I feel suddenly and overwhelmingly compelled to put it out of its misery. Purely for selfless reasons, of course.

"Would you like my last bite?" Damon asks, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

A guilty blush creeps over my face. "Only if you weren't going to eat it."

Damon's answer is to grab my fork off the table and stab it through the delectable morsel before handing it to me.

"It's all yours, _signorina_."

"Thank you very much," I say with an exaggerated nod, being careful not to touch his fingers when I take the fork from him. I pop the bite into my mouth and close my eyes as the salt of the prosciutto and the richness of the olive oil and the freshness of the basil mix with the creamy softness of the mozzarella, dancing across my tongue. A sound like a cross between a hum and a moan escapes my throat. "_God_, this is _incredible_," I say.

When I open my eyes to give Damon a look of gratitude, his expression catches me totally off guard. His lips are parted and I can see color rising in his cheeks. When he sees the confused look on my face he drops his gaze and shifts in his seat.

"Sorry," I say automatically, though I'm not sure why.

He clears his throat and flashes me an easy smile even though his cheeks are still flushed. "Why?" he asks. "It's not a crime to enjoy food. If it was, your entire district would be fenced off and turned into a prison."

I snort a laugh, swallowing my bite. "I just got a very 'Hunger Games' visual."

"_Hunger_ Games. Ha," Damon says dryly.

"You and the puns!" I exclaim, throwing my hands up. "Stefan has the same old-fogey sense of humor. You know, I've never asked your father's age. What was he, like 80 when you guys were growing up or something?"

"Ouch." Damon winces playfully, his eyes bright with mirth.

"Seriously, though," I say, pressing my elbow into the table and resting my chin in my palm. "I told you all about my childhood today, it's only fair that I know a little more about yours. C'mon, spill!" I say, challenging him with a teasing glare. "What was the progenitor of the infamous Salvatore brothers really like? Based on the little Stefan does tell me about him, it seems like the modern-day senior Salvatore is kind of a hard-ass."

Something flickers over his expression, but it's gone before I can decipher it, a look of playful ease taking its place. "No deal. The childhood stuff was therapy time and this is friend time. It's against the rules, remember? Your rules not mine," he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

"Well what kind of friend would I be, not knowing anything about you?" I ask.

His eyelashes flutter and sweep down to his hands. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. A thread of apprehension starts to weave itself into a little ball in my gut.

"Another round, _i miei amori_?" I jump in surprise as Mama D's voice startles me from trying to make sense of Damon's sudden change in mood. I tear my eyes away from him and arrange my face into a smile as I look up at her.

"Yes, please," I say. "You, Damon?"

He still looks uncomfortable but at least he is making eye contact with me. The corners of his mouth curve upward and my chest unclenches just the slightest bit.

"Yeah I'll have another, _gracie, _Mama._"_

"_Excellente_," she croons, glancing adoringly between us as she clears our appetizer plates. "Your dinner will be out shortly." She turns and heads back to kitchen.

Damon leans back and looks me over, his face soft but unreadable. I wait.

He seems to decide something, inhaling deeply and then letting out a long sigh. "It's odd to be asked questions about myself," he says with a shrug. "I'm trained to avoid answering them. That's why relationships like…_this_ can be challenging." He motions between us.

"Friendships with clients you mean?"

"Yes," he says, and doesn't elaborate. He runs a hand through his hair and leans back in his chair. I wait to see if he'll continue.

"See, as your therapist, I'm supposed to remain detached to some degree. I'm supposed to give you just enough information about myself to gain your trust. So you'll feel comfortable sharing yourself." He gestures in my direction. "But I'm also supposed to keep my distance. Avoid any insinuation of equality or friendship." A tiny smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth. "Which is a little ridiculous in our case since you already know Stefan and I'm sure he's given you the Cliff's Notes, if not the full Shakespearean dramaturgy. I know I'd heard a lot about you before we officially met."

I wait to hear if there is more, but he's silent, holding my gaze. I think of all the places he showed me on our walk here, and suddenly it makes sense.

"It must be hard," I say simply. "I'm sorry."

He looks surprised. "Why are you sorry?" he asks.

"Well, it just seems kind of lonely."

His eyes move over my face, openly scrutinizing me. I watch him, unflinching.

Mama D shows up with our drinks, two classic Natro Azzurro pale ales, and Damon glances up to offer her a grateful smile. She takes away my empty glass, seeing that I am drinking straight from the bottle like Damon. We both take sip.

He puts down his beer and exhales on a deep sigh. "I really should refer you to another therapist," he says.

I feel like I've been slapped in the face.

"What? Why?" I stammer.

He must hear the hurt in my voice because he hurries to qualify his statement.

"No, no, no, Elena. It's not because of anything you said. What I'm saying is that _I should_. That's what is supposed to happen in these types of situations, that's all."

"Oh," is all I can manage. Just the echo of the possibility of starting all over with someone else makes my chest feel hollow.

Damon rests his arms on the table, leaning his body into them. He is close enough so I can see the way his jaw tenses and flexes, the dusting of stubble darkening his cheeks in the flickering candlelight.

"The thing is, I don't _want_ to Elena. I feel like you are going to respond really well to therapy, and maybe I'm selfish, but I really want to be there to help make it happen. I feel sort of…" he trails off, dipping his head to search for words.

He lifts his head and fixes me with an intense, ice-blue stare. "I feel _invested_ in you," he finishes, but something about the way he is looking at me tells me there is more he isn't telling me.

Our pizzas arrive, but the glorious sight and delicious smell is overshadowed by the swirl of thoughts and emotions churning in my mind from what he is saying. It's one or the other. Friend or therapist. But how can that be true? I understand why romantic relationships aren't a good idea between a therapist and client, because for every honorable guy out there trying to follow the rules and do the right thing like Damon, there is a scumbag who is willing to take advantage of a woman's vulnerable state of mind. But friendship? Am I supposed to skirt around the brother and future brother-in-law of my best friends while we're all thrown together to prepare for their wedding? Is that my only option if I don't want to have to find another therapist that I trust?

I like Damon. He is obviously attractive and I obviously have a little crush on him. And it's fun and harmless to appreciate his obvious attractiveness because I am never going to do anything about it.

But there is something else. I feel drawn to him. He knows what it's like to lose a parent, to lose someone you love in the same way I lost mine. And more than that, I can see that Damon needs something more in his life too. Something that will bring him out of his shell, remind him that the world can be safe again. He needs someone who has been through what he's been through.

He needs me.

Call me crazy. Call me brainwashed or delusional. I almost laugh, thinking about my hallucinations. _I sort of already am delusional_. But I don't want to give up on him.

I feel invested in him too.

Our pizzas sit untouched and steaming in front of us.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks simply, his voice low and gentle.

I lean forward, resting my arms on the table calmly.

"I'm thinking that the rules are bullshit," I say plainly.

An amused smirk curves his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh really?" he asks. His eyes are dancing flames in the candlelight.

"Not generally, per se. But in our case, yes, I do." I feel a grin tugging at my cheeks but I hold it back.

"Enlighten me," he says.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and gather my thoughts. "What if we had met prior to my attack at the office?" I say.

I wait for his response but he doesn't speak. His eyes dart between mine, searching for the words I haven't said yet.

"If we were already friends, and I had the attack and you knew about it. Or if I had told you about any of the attacks or nightmares I've been having, like I've told Caroline and Stefan? Or better yet, what if this same thing were happening _to_ Caroline? As her friend, as _my_ friend, what would you have done?"

"I would have helped you," he admits. "Or her," he adds.

"Of course you would have," I say. "The same way if I got in a legal bind, I'd go to Stefan. Hell, the same way Caroline has held my life together both in and out of the office." I throw my hands up. "Life is what it is, Damon. If the rules you just told me about therapist and client interaction are true, how can you ever get close to anyone without the fear of their possibly needing advice someday and your having to push them away? What is the point of knowing everything that you know, of having the gift you have, if not to help the people you care about the most?"

Damon's expression doesn't change as he takes in everything I said, his eyes still pointed in my direction but now unfocused. He looks down at his hands, fidgeting with each other in his lap. I don't press him.

"You make a good point," he says, lifting his head, his expression pensive.

I reach for my still steaming pizza and pull up an artichoke-and-Kalamata-olive-laden slice, letting the hot dough scald but not burn my fingers as I hold it up to my mouth.

"If it makes you that uncomfortable to hang out with me in a non-office setting, you are more than welcome to show yourself the door, _signore_." I tease, all wide-eyed sobriety. "Just don't even think about taking that pizza with you." I motion to his delectable- looking sausage-covered Sicilian. "I've got dibs on any food or drink item already sitting on the table." I sink my teeth into my slice, watching him with a playful but challenging look.

I had hoped the humor would lighten the conversation and usher it back into safer territory, but he seems to be actually considering my offer. His eyes sweep down as he takes a distracted swig of his beer, his expression vulnerable yet completely indecipherable.

He smoothes his hands over his napkin in his lap slowly. He doesn't touch his pizza.

I feel a pang of sadness because he is doing it. He is calling my bluff.

I can't help but feel a tinge of annoyance as well. I'm grateful that he will still be my therapist, but since not seeing him outside of his office is going to be impossible, he is only setting us up for a world of awkwardness. The shower might be manageable enough—though the fact that we planned part of it together and will then be ignoring each other seems pretty ridiculous to me. But how are we going to navigate the wedding, where we are the one and only members of the bride and groom's respective wedding parties? I sigh, feeling tired just thinking about it.

He takes a deep breath, but he doesn't stand like I expect him to.

"This goes against everything that's been ingrained in me to do," he says slowly, still looking down at his lap. When he looks up at me, his expression is simmering with palpable intensity. I feel goose bumps threatening over my arms.

"But the truth is I've never liked how separated I'm supposed to be. How can I be my 'authentic' self with my clients, when I can't tell them anything real about me at all?"

He shakes his head. "You're different, Elena. You're more than a client because you're sort of a part of my family, in this weird indirect way. I can't shake it…" he trails off. I wait.

"But I also think that whatever the circumstances, the fact remains that you need therapy, Elena. And I could help you, I know I could." He breathes a heavy sigh. "I just don't want anything to get in the way of your recovery, least of all me. You deserve a chance at a happy, episode-free life."

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. The ball of dread that has been knotting itself inside my belly pulls tighter because I know what is coming next.

"You know, I could hook you up with a really great therapist, Elena. I have somebody in mind that I think—"

"Damon, stop," I interrupt, having heard enough. I wipe my hands on my napkin and lock his eyes in a piercing stare, not giving him the option of looking away. Resolve makes me brave, keeps my voice even, but firm.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a big girl. If I feel like it's getting in the way, I'll tell you. Don't treat me like I don't know anything about myself just because I don't have a psychology degree and a therapist's certificate. I've been handling this without professional help for the better part of the last decade and with all due respect, _nobody_ wants me to get better more than I do. And _I_ happen to think _you_ are the person that is going to be the most effective at helping me with that," I say, gesturing in his direction. "Not because of some fancy degree or your pick-and-choose authenticity lulling me into blindly trusting you. But because you actually get it."

He doesn't react. His face is calm and smooth, even as his eyes storm.

I soften my voice and lean further across the table towards him. "Maybe it shouldn't matter to me that you've been through similar stuff as me. Your mother, your wife. And I'm sure I would be just fine seeing another therapist, if that's what you really want me to do. But why, Damon, when you are probably the person most qualified to help me of anyone?"

I shake my head, rejecting the thoughts in my mind before they even reach my lips. My voice sounds smaller and more vulnerable than I want it to be when I speak, all of my impassioned bravado gone. "I don't want to have to tell that story again, Damon. Start all over." I look into his face, willing him to understand. "I've told that story so many times, but nobody has ever looked at me the way you did. Like you understood me. Do you even get how important that is? How much it means to be heard instead of pitied for once?"

"Yes," he says quietly. "Yes, I do."

"_Exactly_," I say, leaning into the backrest of my chair.

"But there's a reason that rule exists, Elena," Damon counters, his voice emphatic, almost guilty. "Because there are things you may want to tell me as a therapist that you wouldn't necessarily want a friend to know. You wouldn't necessarily tell your best friend's brother you have hallucinations, but you told me because when you came into my office, you were prepared to see a therapist, not a family friend."

"That's true Damon, and yes, I came to your office because I needed a therapist. I still do. But I think that the connection between us is pretty undeniable, don't you?"

Damon freezes. "What do you mean?"

I soften my voice, too caught up in my impassioned argument to make sense of his strange reaction.

"I mean that it's about more than therapy for us, Damon. We know what the other has gone through. You and I understand each other on a level that even Caroline, my very best friend in the whole wide world, can't. I hope she never will." Damon's posture relaxes and I inhale deeply, gathering my thoughts.

"Maybe it will be uncomfortable sometimes, but I am not afraid to go there with you if you promise that you are in this with me. And if you can honestly say it won't be too hard to work on my case because of the similarity to your own life." I lower my voice even further, so it is just above a whisper. "I can be brutally, embarrassingly honest with you if you can be totally straight with me if you start to feel like I'm holding back, or that it is too hard on you to relive these things with me."

"Brutally honest," he murmurs to himself, deep in thought. A light smirk plays on his lips that I don't understand, but I don't ask about it. I've said everything I can think of to say. It's up to him now.

He looks up. His face is completely unreadable in the low light. He scans mine with bright, crystalline eyes, fluid with the many thoughts that are shifting and changing shape behind them, just out of my reach.

We are silent for a long moment. And then he speaks.

"You're right, Elena. It's not my place to tell you what you are or aren't feeling," he says simply. "I'll trust you to tell me if it's not working anymore. And I'll promise to do the same."

He takes a deep, costly-sounding breath. "It's not going to be easy because this is uncharted territory for me," he hedges. "But I promise to try, okay?"

And then he leans forward in his chair to lock me in a searing gaze, his eyes sparking with intensity and conviction. "And I just need to tell you one more time, Elena, just in the off chance I haven't made this perfectly clear already: anything you tell me in therapy is absolutely confidential. It goes nowhere, _period_. If Caroline even ever so much as asks me how you're doing, I'm going to tell her to ask you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do," I say. "I trust you, Damon." And it sounds like a vow, a covenant.

He pauses for a long moment, searching my eyes in the flickering candlelight.

"Okay," he almost whispers, his voice gravelly and low.

The air shifts around us. I feel electricity sparkling over my skin, down my spine, in response.

I narrow my eyes into the tiniest teasing glare as I pick up a slice of my patiently waiting pizza. It is miraculously still warm. I hold it up to my lips, tipping my chin and letting my eyes dart briefly to his plate, encouraging him to join me. He catches my hint with an almost imperceptible smirk and picks up a slice, his eyes twinkling. He holds it up to his mouth, waiting for me to bite. I do, and he follows suit, looking like he's holding back a chuckle.

It feels like the strange combination of a pact being sealed and a childish game, and I feel my heart racing at one and want to giggle at the other.

The conversation finds its way to simpler topics. To pranks he used to play on a rival dorm in college, to the weirdos he meets at the psychologists' conventions he sometimes attends, to the exotic sights he encountered during the long crazy summer when he traveled with Katherine after they graduated from their masters program. He keeps it light, and I don't press him further.

I don't have to start over with someone new.

_"I'll trust you."_

We've gained enough ground today.

* * *

_Author's note: Gasp! What's this, Nightlight? A new chapter a whole day earlier? I had it here all ready for you and I just figured, after how supportive you all have been of me and this fic, I would go ahead and hand it over. THANK YOU to everyone who Reviewed and Followed and Favorited this week. I read, re-read, and obsess over every single one._

_That being said, please review and let me know what you think of this chapter. Trogdor19 and I worked really really hard on it...I almost need to give her co-writing credit on this one for all of the challenges she made to my initial argument. I feel this gets much closer to the heart of what makes Damon and Elena's relationship different from that of a typical therapist/client._

_Speaking of Trogdor19, endless thanks to you, whose brutal honesty and crowing inner black woman made this chapter what it is, and whose palpitating heart and leg-slapping, eye-smashing excitement over this fic (and other mysteries) somehow continually inspires me to abandon everything and everyone else in favor of MORE CHAPTERS!_

_And if you're new to this fic, Follow/Favorite because next week is Trogdor19's most FAVORITEST chapter to date, a Jenna/Alaric chapter!  
_

_Have a fantastic week!_

_XOXO,_

_NightLight_


	9. Ch 9 - Ice Cream and Flannel

**Chapter 9: Ice Cream and Flannel**

I turn the key to my apartment, taking a deep sighing breath. After a long day of work and my interesting evening with Damon, I want nothing more than to take a nice long shower and pass out but I am dreading the bad news I might hear from Jenna tonight.

I try to psyche myself up, rolling my head on my aching neck. I've got to be there for Jenna. After everything she's done for me, I owe her that much.

I open the door tentatively, expecting to find a pajama-clad Jenna three-quarters of the way through a pint of Chunky Monkey.

Instead, I am greeted by the impressive, albeit jarring sight of Alaric's bare backside as he rummages through my freezer.

At the sound of my entrance, he whips around clutching the ice cream carton in his hands and giving me a clear view of his—I can't help but notice—_considerable_ masculinity. He freezes in abject horror, looking like an unfortunate deer about to meet its maker.

"Oh my God!" I yell.

"Oh!" Alaric yelps, his body finally catching up to his brain as he drops the ice cream on the kitchen floor and starts searching frantically for something to cover himself with. "Oh my God!"

His eyes finally land on the dishtowel hanging over my oven door. He snatches it off the handle and fumbles to unfold it wide enough to cover himself, but it keeps getting twisted in on itself in his panic. Finally he just gives up, cupping the wadded up cloth against his nether region and standing up straight to face me like an army recruit waiting to face an angry drill sergeant.

"Alaric, I…" I start, trying desperately to hold back the laugh that is crawling its way up my throat. My eyes keep dragging themselves back down to the dishtowel in spite of myself, and he must take it as my disapproval of his improvised use for my dishtowel because horror dawns on his face anew as he registers the fact that he is rubbing his penis all over it.

"Oh my God!" he yells again, flinging the towel on the ground away from him, but the force of his panicked throw sends it sliding across the floor all the way to my feet. I shriek and jump away to dodge it before I start giggling uncontrollably, dropping my bag and doubling over in side-splitting laughter.

"Oh my God, Elena, I am _so sorry_!" he yells, covering himself with his hands. "I didn't mean to…Jesus Christ, I just…we thought you were…_oh my God_."

Just then Jenna runs in, hastily pulling a fluffy pink robe over her shoulders.

"Elena? What are you doing here?" she yells at me, looking between Alaric and me in horrified disbelief as she starts to put the pieces together. "I…I thought you said you were going to be home _late_!" she stammers.

I can't speak through my laughter. I clutch my aching stomach with one hand and wipe tears away with my other, trying to force myself to calm down enough to carry on a conversation.

"This _is_ late!" I manage between gasping fits of laughter. "Sheesh, Jenna, how was I supposed to know you and Alaric would be…" I trail off, glancing at him where he stands frozen in the kitchen, bright red with embarrassment in a flush that spreads all the way down his neck.

It's no use. A laugh explodes out of my closed mouth and I am off and running again.

Jenna makes a tsking sound and rolls her eyes dramatically before taking off her robe to throw it at Alaric. It lands on the kitchen island between them and he lunges after it, clutching it tightly against the front of his body.

"I'm so sorry, Alaric," I get out, shaking my head before pausing for as deep an inhale and as even an exhale as I can manage, doing my best to settle. I wipe the last of the tears from my eyes. "I had no idea that this is what she meant when she was asking me when I'd be home."

"Then why did you tell me there was ice cream in the fridge with a winky-face?" Jenna yells indignantly, stomping her foot. "How else am I supposed to take that? I thought you were saying, like, 'Hey, have fun, and you're welcome to the ice-cream when you're done—wink, wink, nudge, nudge.' _Sheesh_, Elena."

The sight of Jenna buck naked in my living room with one hand on her hip and the other gesturing wildly is probably one the most absurdly hilarious things I've ever seen. I don't even stand a chance. I have a stitch in my side and my chest burns happily as another fit overtakes me but I don't even mind. I can't remember the last time I laughed this hard and it just feels _good_.

Jenna rolls her eyes at me so enthusiastically I'm afraid they're going to dislodge from their sockets. But then a grin breaks through the scowl on her face and she is giggling right along with me.

I see Alaric start to sink slowly and strategically into a crouch out of the corner of my eye, fumbling for the ice cream as he picks it up off the floor and sets it carefully upright on the counter. The sight of him with that look on his face, draped in all that fluffy pink fabric does nothing to quell my laughter. He looks so awesomely ridiculous. This whole situation is so awesomely ridiculous. I cannot wait to tell Damon this story.

He glances back and forth between us, guffawing like manic hyenas. He throws up his hands in disbelief, including the one still holding the robe, abandoning all pretense of keeping himself covered.

He mutters what is most likely a long string of curses to himself as he pulls the too-small robe on over his broad shoulders, tugging fruitlessly at it as he tries to get enough overlap in the fabric at the front to keep his nether region under wraps.

Literally.

Sheesh, Damon's horrible puns are rubbing off on me.

I can't help but sneak one last look at the goods before he gets everything in place. _Good for you, Jenna_, I think. And try very hard not to break out in giggles again.

"Oh c'mon Alaric, don't get your panties in a bunch," I manage to get out. "It's not like I've never seen a naked man before. Or a naked Jenna, for that matter," I say, giving her a pointed look. She glowers at me with her hands still fastened to her hips.

"Well you two may feel comfortable starting a nudist colony here in your apartment, but I'm out," he says, swiping the Chunky Monkey from the neutral middle of the island to a decidedly more possessive position directly in front of him. He starts angrily opening my kitchen drawers. His forearms flex as they stick out from the sleeves of the robe, which just barely cover his elbows. It would be kind of sexy if it wasn't so damn hilarious.

"To the right of the oven," I call, and Alaric mumbles something imperceptible as he digs through it and pulls out a spoon, dipping it straight into the carton to scoop out a bite.

"Well," I announce, clapping loudly. "_I'm_ going to go take a shower and take a very long time getting ready for bed." I bend down to pick up my workbag. "You guys feel free to enjoy a little…_ice cream_," I say pointedly. Jenna makes a snorting sound. "And I'll just see you later, Ric, okay?"

I raise my eyebrows suggestively at Jenna as I walk past her into the hallway and she just shakes her head. When I don't hear anything from Alaric, I can't resist.

"Maybe I'll settle for seeing a little _less_ of you next time—"

"Elena!" Jenna squeals and lunges after me.

I make a little yipping sound of surprise and then start laughing again, running to my room as fast as my pumps will carry me.

###

When I come down the hallway a little over an hour later, I do so very cautiously.

I see that most of the lights are off or dimmed. I breathe a little sigh of relief and start rubbing my wet hair a little more enthusiastically with my towel.

When I make it past the end of the hallway where it opens up into the living room, I see the sight I was expecting when I first walked through the door this evening. Jenna sits on the couch in her pajamas, her spoon scraping the bottom of the Chunky Monkey carton. When she sees me she stops.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I say, confused by her subdued demeanor. I walk over to her and plop onto the couch next to her, pulling my towel over my shoulders like a cape so my hair doesn't get my pajama shirt wet.

"What's going on, Jenna? Is everything okay?"

She peers down into the empty carton. A stone drops in my stomach.

"Wait, he didn't…I didn't start a fight between you guys or anything, did I?"

"No, no, it's nothing like that," she says, waving a hand dismissively before setting the carton on the coffee table in front of her. "Alaric and I are fine. Great even. I mean, _obviously_." She gives me a sarcastic look and I can't help grinning.

"It's just…" she trails off, searching for words. When she can't settle on any she sighs deeply and flops back onto the couch cushions at an angle, so she is half lying down and half sitting up and almost completely buried in creamy white pillows. I see her elbows peeking out where her arms are crossed over her face, strands of strawberry blond hair splayed out in all directions from the hole she is making in the pile of cushions.

I squeeze her leg through her ratty flannel pajama pants, the same ones she always used to wear when we were living together at my parents house, when she was "raising me". Seeing her in them, so close to the coffee table that also sat in that house all those years, makes my throat tighten and tears jump behind my eyes. I blink them away. It feels so good to have Jenna here with me. I didn't even realize how much I was missing her—how much I've wanted the comforting hominess that only she is left to make me feel—until she was here to remind me.

"Hey, what is it, Jenna?" I say softly, my voice husky with leftover emotion. I clear my throat. "Did he run off with your favorite robe?" I tease, shoving her leg lightly. "I must say it looked pretty fetching on him."

A hand strikes out from the hole in the couch cushions and I dodge it, chuckling at my own joke.

Jenna pulls away the pillow that was covering most of her face and looks at me with what can only be described as a wickedly giddy grin. "He did look pretty awesome in that thing, didn't he?"

I chuckle and lean back into the couch next to her, dismantling the pillow barrier between us so I can get a clear line of sight to her face. She sits up straighter and pulls her knees up closer to her chest, her eyes downcast. I wait for her to speak.

"It's just…" she starts, but stops again. She peeks up at me, and her face looks so tortured I can't even imagine what it is that could be bothering her.

Unless…

"Jenna." I say, trying to keep my voice even. "Is it…is he maybe not so…good? In the sack, that is?"

"What? No! Oh my God no, Elena, _no_." She hides her face with her hands. But then she opens her fingers in front of her eyes to peek at me from between them. "Actually, it's kind of the opposite," she says, her voice muffled behind her hands. She drops her hands from her face and pulls herself upright excitedly. "Elena, I mean…like, _whoa_. He does this thing with his tongue, and I still haven't figured it exactly what it is but holy God..."

"Okay, okay!" I say, waving my hands in surrender and shaking my head so the many colorful visuals that just involuntarily flashed through my mind don't stick and traumatize me for life. "Alright, so he's good," I say matter-of-factly. She gives me a pointed look. "Okay, _great_," I amend indulgently before she can correct me. "So what's the problem?"

"It's just," she breathes another heavy sigh. "I wanted things to be different this time. With Alaric I feel like…" she leans back and looks up at the ceiling, tangling a hand in the hair at the top of her head. "I feel like he's somebody I could really see myself with, you know? He's super smart, he's ridiculously funny, he's _gorgeous_." She looks at me, her eyes sparkling, and I realize I've never seen her look like that when she's talking about a guy.

"But it's more than that. We have this _connection_," she breathes. "You know what I mean, right? You don't get that with just anyone. I mean I've had little tastes of what it could be like with a couple guys across the years, but this is in a whole different league. The air just _sizzles_ between us, you know?"

I swallow hard and nod my head, trying very hard not to think of dark hair and clear blue eyes.

She looks away again, oblivious to my internal struggle. "I just didn't want for things between Alaric and me to be the same as they've been with every other guy." She gives me a pained look. "You know how it goes with me, Elena. I'm not going to pretend I hid anything from you back in those days, even though I was young and stupid enough to believe I was at the time. I always party too hard, find the first cute guy that pays me a compliment and fall into bed with him. And by the time I get around to finding out who he really is, I'm already in too deep and everything is all backwards."

She sighs. "With Alaric, I wanted to wait a little while, to get to know him and have him get to know me. I didn't want to treat him like another one of my party-boys. And _I_ didn't want to act like the old stupid party-girl Jenna. I wanted to do things differently with him. You know, give us a chance to see things through like a real couple."

She looks down at her hands. "And yet what did I do? The very first chance I got, I leaped into bed with him. Is that what somebody who's interested in a long-term relationship with someone does? I have no idea anymore." She falls bonelessly back into the couch and covers her eyes with her arms once more.

"Hey, Jenna." I pull at her arms but they stay put. "Jenna look at me," I say firmly. She peeks tentatively out from between her arms and then drops them altogether with a dejected sigh, looking like a kicked puppy while she waits for me to speak.

"Listen. I don't know that I should necessarily be telling you this, but I didn't hear any specific instructions that I _shouldn't_, per say, so I'm just going to." Jenna perks up, adjusting her position slightly to face me more head on.

"Alaric is crazy about you." I say simply. "And I happen to have it on good authority that he _is_ treating you differently than the girls he sometimes gets involved with from the bars and whatnot. And, just from what I've observed, I doubt he would be spending all this time with you doing things _other_ than having sex if he didn't want more from you than to 'leap into bed', as you so artfully put it."

I grab Jenna's leg and shake it playfully for emphasis. "Besides, Jenna, this is just who you are! You're fun and spontaneous and crazy and easy-going, and I'll bet that's what he loves about you."

"He's nervous," she pipes up hopefully. "He told me, he's nervous about the fact that I just broke up with Logan and now we're together. He's scared I might just flit off. His ex-wife…"

"I know about Isobel."

"Oh," she says, mildly surprised. "Yeah, Isobel. Anyways after the number she did on him, he's totally gun-shy. Insecure. And at first it just seemed like a really good idea to…I don't know…_reassure him_, or whatever, that I was serious about him. That I wasn't going anywhere. But now I'm worried I've done the opposite. Or, God forbid, put myself in the same league as all the other immature hard-partying skanks that are no doubt throwing themselves at him every time he goes out." She makes a frustrated noise and scrubs a hand over her face.

"Dammit, I don't know what came over me Elena! Why did I just do that?"

I give her a pointed look. "You don't know why you just did that?" I ask, my voice dripping in sarcasm. "Really? I got a glimpse of that ass and let me tell you, it would be hard for _me_ to resist something that fine, and I'm not even a hard-partying immature skank like you," I tease. I try to dodge another slap but this time she gets me on the arm.

"Shut up," she says, but her face has broken out in a beaming grin.

"In all seriousness, Jenna, why don't you just talk to him? Like you said, he's a smart guy, I'm sure he'll understand what you're trying to say. Just be honest with him about how you're feeling." I put my hand on her leg again and squeeze lightly. "And don't sell yourself short, either. He obviously likes you just the way you are. Don't worry about the person you are 'supposed' to be and things you are 'supposed' to do." I use air quotes for maximum sarcastic emphasis. "Just let the relationship unfold. From what I've seen and heard, he isn't exactly the poster child for a party-free lifestyle either."

She nods at me but still looks troubled. I don't suppose I'll be able to convince her of anything tonight, but I hope I helped her feel a little bit better.

"Too bad Ric and I ate all the ice-cream," she pouts. "I didn't really get all that much after he got to it and I could use a whole lot more right about now."

"I _may_ have a brand new pint of chocolate chip cookie dough hiding in the back of the freezer…" I say, trailing off. "I know it's not the same as your beloved Chunky Monkey—"

"Done," she interrupts enthusiastically.

"Okay then," I laugh and stand up to grab it, wrapping my still damp hair inside my towel turban-style. I return and hand Jenna her spoon, scooping a bite out for myself with my own before I hand it over.

"Thanks," she says.

"Anytime," I say. And I smile, because now that Jenna's here, "anytime" is actually possible.

We sigh contentedly in turn, passing the ice cream back and forth in companionable silence, both of us deep in thought over our undeniable connections to two undeniably incredible guys.

One, close enough to fear how he might slip away.

The other so far out of reach he'll never be mine to lose.

At least not like that anyway.

Friendship. It's enough.

It will have to be.

My toes curl around the worn wood of my childhood coffee table, and I realize with a pang in my chest that if my mother had lived just a little longer, we might have found ourselves in a similar position, our feet resting on the same table, our spoons dipping into a similar carton of ice cream. We weren't there yet, when those troubled teen years are done and adulthood begins to set in, when friendship can begin to blossom and grow in earnest between a mother and daughter. I feel that clenching in my throat again and swallow around it. She will never know me as I am, never see what I've accomplished, the woman I've become. What would we talk about? What advice would she give me? About life, my career?

I'll never know.

I glance over at Jenna, who was barely more than a kid herself when she became all that I had. And I feel grateful. That she agreed to upend her whole life for me, that she took on the impossible job of raising a teenager when she was still in her 20's. Maybe she's not my mother, but she's the closest thing I ever came to having one again once mine was gone.

She smiles at me, and I smile back.

She isn't my mother. But she feels like all the good parts of the version of home I'm allowed now that that most of my family is lost for good.

We eat. We sit. Surrounded by ice cream and flannel and worn wood and silence.

And I'm content.

* * *

_Author's Note: Happy Wednesday! Thank you for all of your reviews and follows and favorites. I hear some of you are posting links to this story to your twitter and tumblr accounts! THANK YOU so ridiculously much for supporting this story. It means the moon and the stars and Damon naked in my bed to me. Well, almost. Wouldn't that be awesome though? _

_This chapter is for Trogdor19, for whom I have _considerably_ ruined masculinity, and who has permanently changed the way I look at my aloe plant, and whose powers of beta'ing mastery far exceed that of any other plural skanks or comma douchbags out there._

_And I'm going to throw in a shout out to Goldknox and her cake, because I wish I was there to eat it too. Thanks for the twitter rec, friend._

_The next chapter is the first of a two-chapter wedding shower extravaganza! Follow/Favorite so you don't miss out, and PLEASE leave me a review. Each and every one is cherished and appreciated and promptly recycled into writing fuel!_

_xoxo, Nightlight_


	10. Ch 10 - Francesca with an F

**Chapter 10: Francesca with an "F"**

I knew the Salvatores were wealthy, but when I caught my first glimpse of the tree-lined drive stretching beyond the iron gates, I knew my previous assumptions about their lifestyle were about to be swiftly and decisively annihilated.

The towering brick mansion with clean white columns and a high entry archway sits tucked among more trees, nestled like a modern castle in a secret garden. Twinkle lights wink expectantly from the trees despite dusk having barely begun to color the sky, lending an air of impending magic to the brisk, salty air. A large circular drive surrounds a stone fountain, looking like a charming Italian wishing well straight from the streets of Rome. For all I know, that's exactly where it came from.

The house is clearly old, intimidating and austere yet somehow cozy and inviting at the very same time. Something about the heavy trunks of the trees and the expansive reach of their branches, the weathered stones that make up the drive, the way the greenery gentles the sides of the house. It looks very much like a place I could imagine living, if not affording.

The chauffeur opening my door snaps me out of my stunned state, and I go through the motions of exiting the vehicle despite not being completely ready to face what I'm seeing. My mind is racing with thoughts of how to place the men I know today being boys in a home like this, surrounded by money and privilege of this magnitude. I suddenly have a newfound respect for the two of them, the down-to-earth, functional adults they've managed to grow into.

I survey the scene, forcing my thoughts toward the wedding shower business at hand. There will be plenty of time to tease Stefan and Damon about all of this later.

The circular drive is still packed with florists and caterers and party furnishing companies, their various representatives moving up and down the garden paths on the sides of the house as they pack up what's left of their gear.

A valet is nodding eagerly next to a podium that's been set up near the entrance, his white-gloved hands folded respectfully in front of him as he receives instructions from a beautiful woman in a blush-colored chiffon gown. Instantly, I know I'm looking at Francesca. She is the only woman I can imagine inspiring such an enthusiastically acquiescent reaction from a grown man while looking so unintimidatingly lovely.

She catches sight of me and excuses herself from the valet with a curt nod. He bows awkwardly but she's already moved on, her eyes fixated on me and a warm welcoming smile brightening her perfectly made-up face. I feel the overwhelming urge to fidget and allow myself a quick swipe of my hair behind my ear before forcing my hands to my sides.

"And you must be Elena," she breathes, pulling me into a tight hug. She smells delightful and although her caramel-colored locks are perfectly curled and waved into sexy/sweet submission, they are still soft to the touch when they brush my jaw. She pulls away and surprises me with an air kiss on either cheek that comes off as oddly genuine.

When she finally pulls away to look me over, I am blushing and flustered, and she looks as calm and cool as a mint leaf floating in ice water.

"So beautiful," she tells me, pulling the hair I had just tucked behind my ear out and smoothing it down my cheek. I feel like I've been both scolded and complimented at the same time.

In this moment, I think I have begun to understand the formidability of Francesca Salvatore. She sets you off balance at the exact same time that she dazzles you into wanting to impress her.

I smile my most winning smile. "Francesca," I say. "So glad to finally meet you."

"Oh, Elena, my darling, you as well! What a gorgeous dress!" she says, motioning to my emerald green satin strapless mini. "It looks positively enchanting with your complexion, dear." I'm about to thank her, but before I can get the words out she continues. "Is that how you're wearing your hair, or do you need me to direct you to one of our dressing rooms? There are plenty of supplies there for you if you forgot to bring them from your hotel!"

I resist the urge to run my hand down my hair and hold her gaze instead, getting an irrational flash of two lions battling for dominance I once saw on the Discovery Channel.

"No, but thank you, Francesca. I've always preferred my hair straight."

"Oh, of course darling, it looks lovely," she backpedals dismissively, but she breaks eye contact to glance back towards the house.

_Point, Elena._

"Shall we?" she asks, stretching her arm out towards the house. "I can't wait for you to see how wonderfully everything turned out!"

"Yes please," I say politely, taking one last glance into the car to get my things. The DVD, my clutch and my black cashmere wrap are sitting on the seat. I reach in to grab them before thanking the still-waiting chauffeur, who shuts the door with a pleasant smile and begins walking to the driver's side.

"Thank you so much for sending the town car, by the way. You really didn't need to do that."

"Oh, nonsense, of course," she says, waving my words away as she begins to lead me toward the house. "It was my pleasure. We can't have the Maid of Honor and the Best Man showing up in taxi cabs, now can we?"

My stomach flips and flutters tremulously at the mention of the Best Man. I had to miss our session last week to catch up on some things at work so it's almost been a whole week since I've seen him. I clutch my DVD tighter.

"Is Damon here yet?" I ask, even though I know the answer. He was supposed to show up early to work out all of the logistics for our "personal touches." He insisted I stay back at the hotel and relax, and it didn't take much for me to agree. As much as I have been looking forward to finally putting a face to Stefan and Damon's father, Giuseppe, the idea of meeting Francesca when she was bound to be in an ill-tempered mood over our additions to her shower did not sound appealing to me.

"Oh yes of course," she says, attempting to sound breezy, but I can hear the strain behind her words. "He's at the rear of the estate, in the outdoor entertaining area. Shall I take you to him?"

"Yes please," I say, just before I lose my breath.

The entrance hall we've just stepped into is a glittering spectacle of creamy marble and dark wood accents that mirrors the contrasting theme of the white trim and brick exterior of the house. A ginormous, intricately carved pedestal table topped in buttery Carrera marble sits in the center of the hall. A flower arrangement in various shades of white and light pink sits atop it, with glimmering clusters of delicate golden butterflies fluttering out from between the blooms. A flawless touch, since Caroline's chosen colors for the wedding happen to be blush, cream and gold.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Francesca asks, breaking me out of my trance. I didn't even realize I'd stopped walking and had been standing there staring like an artless hayseed.

_Point, Francesca._

"Yes, it is," I breathe with a smile, not even bothering to try to hide my amazement.

"C'mon, darling. I'm sure Damon will give you the tour later. I'm anxious for you to meet up with him so you both can be sure your plans have been carried out to your…specifications." She hesitates, but her face is the picture of ease. "Guests will be arriving shortly!" She turns in a flourish of billowing chiffon, leading me further into the house. I follow close behind.

By the time we make it to the back of the house, I feel like I've just speed-walked through an in-person Architectural Digest home tour.

I pass through the apartment-sized kitchen, busy with a small army of caterers and servers prepping the food, before I'm distracted by the feel of a light breeze in my hair. I turn to see a pair of massive French doors swung wide open to the back yard.

I only stutter one step when I see the pool.

I take a deep breath of fresh evening air and force myself to focus on everything else, and there is _plenty_ to focus on.

Flowering magnolia trees twinkling with more fairy-lights line the far side of a large stone patio. Tall cocktail tables draped in long white tablecloths are scattered across the smooth grey surface, each one adorned with smaller flower arrangements like the one in the entryway, complete with the shimmering butterflies. They look almost alive, trembling in the balmy ocean air. Small glass votives flicker gently beside the flowers, the cracked gold detail on each one making their light warmer and more complex than they would be in plain glass.

Thankfully, the pool is tucked off to the side rather than directly in the middle where it would be impossible to avoid. I should have plenty of room to skirt around it without appearing antisocial.

Beyond the patio is a lush lawn, which gives way to what appears to be a large garden that wraps all the way around the side of the house. It is enclosed by sculpted shrubbery and lit with more lights, made inviting by a stone path beckoning from an arched opening in the hedge.

I scan the space for Damon, following shiny hair and swirling pink as Francesca begins to make her way down the semi-circular stone steps to the main patio.

And then I see him, right by the pool I have been studiously avoiding looking at.

He is wearing a white dress shirt with black slacks, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms the way they always seem to be. An open tie hangs loose around his neck and his top button is undone. His hair looks only slightly more subdued than usual, though I'm guessing that given enough interesting conversation, his hand will make sure it looks like its usual messy self by the night's end. I smile at the thought.

He is standing in front of a giant projector and talking to a man with a headset microphone on his head—probably the sound technician. I gulp and feel my fingers tighten around the DVD I'm holding. I hope Caroline and Stefan like it.

We move closer. And then I realize to my horror that Francesca is leading me to the few feet of space between the tables and the water's edge. I'll be forced to walk right along the edge of the pool.

My brain starts to run frantically through scenarios. _Could I break away and walk behind the tables instead of in front of them? That feels rude for some reason. Would she notice if I walked fast enough? Damon is standing so close to the water._ I feel my heartbeat picking up with every step.

"Damon!" Francesca calls. I hang back as much as I can. _ It's just a pool, Elena. Just a small pool in a backyard._

Damon is still mid-conversation but he glances up and offers Francesca a polite, distracted smile and nod before his eyes slide back to the sound technician. But almost immediately they come up again, and when they do they are bright, burning with a focus that catches me off guard as they register the sight of me behind her.

The familiar blue of his eyes soothes me somehow, and I hold contact with them as I make my way towards him, willing them to give me strength.

His look turns questioning and then realization dawns on his face. He says something to the technician and begins jogging out to meet us, running past the pool so we stop short of having to pass beside it.

"Hey, Elena, you made it," he says, beaming though he is looking me over with a hint of something like worry playing around the edges of his eyes.

I want to cry with relief, even as I feel my heart swell with something else less ascribable.

He remembered.

"Francesca," he nods in a formal but not unfriendly way.

"I believe you told me to let you know as soon as Elena had arrived," she says warmly. "As you can see, I'm a woman of my word."

_Why does it sound like she's flirting with him?_

"Indeed you are, 'Cesca, dear. Thank you," he says with a smirk, taking her hand and brushing a kiss over the top of her knuckles. Something that might be green and definitely unsavory somersaults in my gut. I shuffle my feet awkwardly.

Francesca blushes and I catch the way she brushes her hair behind her shoulder discreetly. Francesca is not the kind of woman who fiddles with her hair.

Suddenly I feel sick because, watching her, I understand something that I hadn't really thought about before.

This is how _everyone_ reacts to Damon.

The man is just undeniably gorgeous. Of course I am going to be struggling with a crush when I am spending so much time with him.

In truth, it's been surprisingly easy to forget my attraction to him during our sessions—much easier than I thought it would be. It's all the time together _outside_ the office that is catching me off guard. Dinner and drinks with Jenna and Alaric at the Square every other week, chatting on the curb after every session since the night at Mama Dinna's. I've tried my best to keep my thoughts friendly, but then he'll say something funny or look at me with a flash of that rare vulnerability and I forget not to want him.

I feel pitiful and small, standing here in my dress that now seems a little too short, my hair too straight. All this time I've been secretly telling myself that I was different. That somehow, because I'm his friend or because I know his brother my attraction to him was less silly, less childish than a crush on an untouchable person always is.

But I see now. I'm just another woman in what must undoubtedly be a long line of Damon Salvatore's admirers.

"Elena, did you bring the DVD?" he asks, interrupting me from my thoughts.

"Yes," I say, not looking at him. I hold it out distractedly, but when I feel his fingers brush against mine I glance up at him. He could easily have grabbed it from me without touching me. He is looking at me like he is trying to see through my skin, his eyes questioning though his face is struggling to stay neutral. After a short pause, he speaks, looking reluctant to turn away from me.

"Francesca, I spoke to a member of the catering staff a few minutes ago about the timing for the circulation of the dessert trays, and she insisted the champagne was supposed to come afterwards, rather than before. I told her it didn't sound right to me, but she insisted she was following your direct orders." His expression of concern looks a shade shy of genuine, but I keep my face smooth just in case he actually cares about when champagne is served. "It might be worth double checking with the catering manager," he says, his eyes darting impatiently back to me.

"Of course, thank you, Damon. I'll deal with her immediately," Francesca says seriously, her chin lifting with renewed importance. "Oh and by the way, do you happen to know what time Stefan and Caroline are planning to arrive?"

"Right at six," I say, even though I'm sure she was asking Damon instead of me. "You know Caroline." I smile at Damon, who nods knowingly, a smirk tugging at his lips. "She can't stand showing up late to anything, least of all a wedding shower thrown in her honor." I glance back at Francesca who is watching Damon and me with a tight smile.

_Point, Elena_.

"Indeed," she says, touching her hair again. "Well, I'll leave you two to tend to your…_contributions_," she says, her nose wrinkling condescendingly. "Make sure they know what time it's scheduled to begin so they don't run late and backlog my time-table." She looks pointedly at the sound technician, and then turns on her heel to head back toward the house.

"Thank you, Francesca!" Damon calls after her, before the full force of his undeterred focus settles back on me. I fight the shiver that runs up my spine. It happens every single time, so I am becoming quite practiced at concealing it, if not fending it off.

"Hi," he says, and his voice sounds different, softer. The corners of my mouth quirk up into a smile of their own volition.

"Hi," I reply, and my voice sounds softer too. I clear my throat.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yeah, why?" I say as casually as possible even though a feel a twinge of anxiety tighten in my chest. _Dear God please don't let him have picked up on my jealousy earlier._

"The pool," he says seriously, jerking his head towards the water behind him.

It is all I can do not to breath an audible sigh of relief. "Oh, yeah. Thank you for that, by the way. I think I would've been okay, but I just…I don't know." I'm stuttering. Damon grins at me and I blow out a nervous laugh. "I'm fine. Thank you," I tell him, flashing a grateful smile.

"Anytime," he says. His eyes slide down over my body and then back up to my face. His expression is carefully casual. "You look beautiful," he says simply.

"You're not so bad yourself," I say, feeling color rising in my cheeks. "But I think you'll have to do something about that tie," I glare mischievously and dare to reach out and finger one end. "Unless you're trying to start a new trend or something."

Damon chuckles. "I wish. I hate these fucking things. Pardon my French," he says guiltily.

"No pardon necessary," I say. "So, was that the sound technician you were talking to?"

"Yup," he says. "Everything is in order. He already has the projector up and running, but they want to have a practice run with the DVD."

"Of course," I say. "Shall we?"

"Yeah, but hold on, let's go this way," he says, touching his hand to my waist before slipping it over the satin of my dress to the small of my back, guiding me gently away from the pool and around the back of the tables toward the projector screen. I do my best against the shiver, but I can't fight the goosebumps that break out over my arms at the tender steadiness of his touch.

_His hands_. God almighty I need to stop thinking about his hands. Suddenly, they're the only thing I can't _not_ think about. The way they would feel cradling my face, running confidently over my skin, insistent but oh-so-patient, slipping slowly up my ankles, my calves, my thighs. I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of the feel of my legs rubbing together under my dress as I walk. _Good Lord, Elena, get ahold of yourself_.

Something about this place, the way he looks in those perfectly-fitted slacks, is setting me off my game.

I blame the twinkle lights. And Francesca. This whole place is too damn magical.

I swallow and try to distract myself by getting down to business.

"So how's everything else going? Did the kegs come?" My voice sounds a little huskier than usual. I hope he doesn't notice. I clear my throat discreetly, even as his hand makes my skin tingle beneath the satin.

"Yes they did, as a matter of fact," Damon says, looking disproportionately gleeful.

"What?" I ask, glaring at him suspiciously.

"Well, I just wish you could have been here to see the expression on Francesca's face when they started rolling them in here," Damon says. "The looks she was giving the deliveryman would have given a basilisk competition."

I start giggling, envisioning that lovely face of hers contorted into what was probably the prettiest iteration of deadly hatred ever conceived. That would definitely have been worth the awkwardness of showing up earlier.

"And the bartenders are all teed up for Caroline's drink?"

"Indeed. They made a sample for Francesca, and she declared it one of the best green apple martinis she's ever tasted, even though I doubt she has any idea what she's talking about." I can almost hear his eyes rolling. "I think she just liked how pretty it looked. The bartender put this swirly peeled apple thing in it. You know, the kind of thing you chicks can't seem to get enough of." He flashes me a teasingly smug look out of the corner of my eye.

"Oh, so now we're just 'you chicks'?" I say, only partially feigning outrage. "I wasn't aware people of education still held such broad views." I give him a teasing side-smile of my own.

He pretends to think it over. "Well I suppose I _could_ make an exception for you, since you do seem to keep me on my toes more than the average chick," he smirks. "You can come join us men over here. Hope you like ignorant stereotyping and non-swirly drinks."

"Well unfortunately, I do happen to like swirly drinks," I say. "And to be honest, I don't think becoming a man simply so I could use phrases like 'you chicks' un-ironically would suit me any better than it suits you." I give him a pointed look, and his eyes are dancing with mirth. "Plus, I don't think masculinity goes with my dress." I motion offhandedly down my body.

Damon's eyes follow my hand, but his gaze lingers long after it is safely back at my side. His fingers flex against my back. This time, when he glances back up, I'm sure I see something there. Something that makes the air feel warm, my heart stutter in my chest.

"No. No it wouldn't," he says softly, his eyes burning though his expression remains unreadable. I've already forgotten what we were talking about. He looks ahead suddenly and drops his hand from my back, leaving me with a sense of both loss and relief. I think of Damon brushing his lips against Francesca's hand. It's like a bucket of cold, mint-flavored water.

_Just another woman_, _nothing special._

Without him touching me, I just might have a chance of getting my imagination under control.

I clear my throat and square my shoulders as we approach the technician, who is crouched next to the projector screen. He is checking wires, writing notes on a clipboard as he refers to the tangle in front of him. It looks like barely-organized chaos to me, but he seems pleased with what he sees so I'm sure all is as it should be.

"Hey there, Daniel," Damon says. "This is my good friend Elena. We have the DVD here. Wanna give it a spin?"

_Good friend. _

Maybe I am a little different after all.

###

A half hour later, the staff and service members are gone and the grounds look expectant, all gussied up for their big date. Damon headed back into the house to fix his tie and locate his jacket. Thankfully, the test run went off without a hitch. I sit at one of the tables farthest from the pool, enjoying the peaceful calm before the storm, savoring the stillness of the dusky evening air as it fades into darkness.

The band members sit on a stage behind a light-strung dance floor in the center of the lawn, joking with each other. Their instruments rest easily but readily in their hands as their laughter echoes over the expanse of the lawn, dissipating into the air. Mockingbirds are beginning their evening song, and I think of how lovely it is, to hear real, non-pigeon birds singing real songs, how different the world sounds out here away from the city.

I'm interrupted from my silent observations by the sound of Caroline's excited voice coming from the house behind me. I turn and see her coming down the stone steps arm in arm with Francesca, her golden hair bouncing with excitement. I'm relieved to see that she is wearing a strapless mini dress too, but hers is cream chiffon with a single strap of rosettes that climbs across her exposed chest and over one shoulder like a delicate vine. She looks gorgeous, glowing and fluttering like the shimmering golden butterflies in the flower arrangements.

I stand, leaving my clutch and wrap on the table. I'm about to make my way over to her, when I see Stefan and Damon step through the French doors. Stefan looks dapper in his black suit and tie with a subtle white corsage pinned to his lapel. But it's the man beside him that nearly makes me forget how to walk. With his tie tied and his suit jacket on, he looks nothing short of arresting. I gulp and take a deep breath, gathering myself before making my way toward Caroline.

She catches sight of me midway down the steps and starts waving excitedly with her free hand. Francesca releases her and she practically runs the rest of the way.

"Elena!" she calls, beaming brighter than a streak of sunshine. I start giggling, catching her exultant mood, and then she is upon me, her arms wrapped around me and squeezing so tight I'm almost afraid she'll crack one of my ribs. She smells like honey and lavender and best friend. I squeeze her back.

"Oh my _God_ Elena look at thiiiiissssss!" she says, pulling back, but I don't even get a moment to recover before her fingers wrap around my shoulders in a bruising-tight grip and she starts jumping up and down like a fanatical tween at a One Direction concert. She lets go right before I'm about to lose my battle with the cry of pain working its way up my throat and gestures widely to the grand spectacle around us. "Isn't it beautiful?" she breathes before clutching her folded hands to her chest like a swooning princess in fairytale.

While she is busy admiring the scenery, I inhale a much-needed breath into my bruised lungs, throwing rueful half-smile at Damon and Stefan, who are standing together at a safe distance behind Caroline. Damon is looking on with amusement and Stefan is trying and only partially succeeding to hold back a chuckle—at my reaction or Caroline's behavior, I don't know. I offer him a light eye roll greeting, and he flares his eyes and grins in a way that reminds me of his brother. I smile.

"Caroline," I say, taking her hands and smiling at her. "You look absolutely gorgeous." I brush away a stray lock of golden hair from her face.

"Look who's talking, sexy lady!" Caroline says, taking a step back to look me up and down before growling theatrically and scratching the air with cat claws. "That color looks _fantastic_ on you!"

"Thank you," I say, feeling shy with the boys looking on. "So, you got here okay, of course. I still don't know why you decided to stay at a hotel last night when you could have stayed _here_," I say, motioning to the house behind them. I focus accusingly on Stefan. "_Seriously_, Stefan?" I ask him sarcastically. "_This_ is your family's Hamptons home? You made it sound so casual, like it could have been a cottage or something. You forgot to mention it was, oh, I don't know, a _palace_."

Stefan holds his hands up as if to block my accusation. "I never specifically said anything that would have given you the impression of it being a cottage," he defends.

"Spoken like a true lawyer," Damon teases, crossing his arms and giving his brother a smug side look.

"Hey you're not off the hook either, mister," I say, pointing an accusing finger at Damon, who lifts his hands up in the same gesture of deflection his brother used a moment ago.

"Well what was I supposed to say?" Stefan throws his hands up. "It's just my family's home," he shrugs. "It's like when you tell people about your '_apartment_,'" he air quotes. "Everyone probably pictures you living in a rent-controlled walk-up with the kitchen in your bedroom like everybody else your age suffers with in the city. You don't specify that you live in a palace of your own, by Manhattan's standards."

Damon laughs, curiosity flickering behind his smile. I feel my cheeks getting hot, thinking of how tiny my home would feel to Damon, were he ever to visit it someday. _And why would he?_ I blush even deeper. Mercifully, he looks away. But I don't miss how his cheeks are flushing the slightest bit brighter too.

"Hey now all you rich folks, there's nothing wrong with rent-control," Caroline says, sounding like a mother scolding her children. "Elena, you can heckle Stefan about the house later. Lord knows I did plenty," Caroline nudges a playful elbow against Stefan that turns into a snuggle. I smile.

"And as for why we didn't stay here," she looks behind her guiltily, as if to make sure no one is in hearing distance, and when she speaks again her voice is a stage whisper. "Let's just say it starts with an 'F' and ends with 'ranchesca.' No offense to her whatsoever, but we've learned from experience that being in the house the morning of one of her parties is more akin to being in a war zone than anything else."

"A horrific, bloody war zone…" Stefan specifies, eyes wide. "Barbed wire, reinforced trenches, groans of agony from the staff…"

"Yes, dear. We all know it's bad, thank you," Caroline concedes indulgently.

I look at Damon for confirmation and he raises his eyebrows before giving me a grave nod, leaning toward me. "I stayed in a hotel too," he whispers conspiratorially from behind his hand.

I glance behind them to where Francesca is chatting with one of the catering staff, a beautiful pink confection against the greenery and the starry lights. She looks so harmless from here. But at that exact moment, the server she was talking to scurries off with her head down and her tray cradled flat against her chest. I can't be positive, but it looks like she might be crying.

Francesca floats serenely away and heads to the bartender waiting behind the poolside bar station. I get a brief visual of a majestic hawk sailing effortlessly through the sky, moments before it dives down to crush an unsuspecting rodent between its beak. I make yet another mental note never to cross that woman.

"At any rate, we are all here now and this party is _going to be amazing_!" The last few words are an excited squeal.

"That's for sure," I agree. "I have to say, for all of my failed attempts to get through to Francesca, I sort of understand why she was blowing me off now that I've seen this place. The woman knows how to pull off a beautiful party. I really would have just gotten in her way."

"Hey, what ever happened with that?" Caroline asks, glancing between Damon and me. "Did you guys ever make any headway with her? I'm just curious. It's no big deal if not…obviously, tonight is going to be incredible no matter what."

I motion to Damon, indicating that he should fill them in.

"What?" he says, feigning innocence.

I put my hands on my hips. "Don't 'what' me!" I tell him. "Damon here is the one responsible for taming the beast. I think he should be the one to tell you about it."

Caroline's eyes light up. "Damon?" she says expectantly, bringing her hands to her chin to flutter-clap excitedly.

Damon raises his eyebrows at me, giving me one last chance to do the honors, but I just nod at him with a grin, giving him the "go ahead" to take the lead.

Damon clears his throat theatrically and rubs his hands together. "Alright, well first I think we'd better head over to the bar. We've gotta kick this party off right, don't we, Elena?" His eyes are dancing, filled with the joy of a secret shared just with me. My chest warms at the sight.

"Why yes, Damon, I believe we do," I say, flashing him a mischievous smile. "Lead the way."

* * *

_Author's Note: This week I am fortunate enough to owe beta thanks to both Trogdor19 AND Goldnox, whose combined writing talent is so powerful, you can't look directly at it or you'll go blind._

_Trogdor, m'lady, having you in my corner is like having a Muse Baby mojito. Your ideas are as refreshing as mint, your attitude, as cool as a cucumber (even when I'm panicking). And God bless you, you aren't afraid of a little lemon. ;) I'm so grateful for you and for all the work you do on this fic._

_And Goldnox, what a gift it has been to have a taste of the sweet multicolored rainbow that is your encouraging, insightful, and unabashedly hyphen-friendly beta'ing. I am so grateful to have found someone to keep my email inbox warm and my needy, insecure ego fed while Trogdor is off burninating the rivers of the world. Thank you girl._

_I just need to brag to everyone about the fact that TROGDOR19's HOT DELENA MASTERPIECE, THE DESPERATE LOVE TRILOGY BY MICHELLE HAZEN IS NUMBER ONE on Kindle Worlds. Not to say I told you so, but...you know. DOWNLOAD IT, PEOPLE._

_AND, while you're at it DO NOT MAKE THE MISTAKE of not downloading Goldnox's, aka C.L. Marlene's, gorgeous stories, THE SOUNDS OF TOMORROW and RESONANCE OF REALITY both of which will make you weep at their beauty. _

_AS always PLEASE REVIEW and Follow/Favorite. You will not want to miss the next chapter...it is a sweet Delena smorgasbord and very dear to my heart. :)_

_XOXO, Nightlight_


	11. Ch 11 - The Garden of Truth and Secrets

**Chapter 11: The Garden of Truth and Secrets**

The party is in full swing.

The sound of big band music fills the evening air, as guests talk and dance and sample the delectable array of hors d'oeuvres as they circulate on silver platters. Tiny lettuce cups filled with match-sticked cucumber, celery, green apples, and goat cheese, drizzled in a tangy red-wine-vinegar dressing. Crispy philo dough with a melt-in-your-mouth creamy spinach and mushroom filling. Tender filet skewers drizzled with a delightfully spicy chimichurri sauce, with just enough heat to tickle your taste buds and warm your belly.

The green apple martinis are a huge hit, and though the beer may be less so amongst the older half of the crowd, I've seen more than a few gentlemen gamely nursing the groom's signature drink. It's certainly been an effective conversation starter.

Caroline and Stefan have been busy most of the night, greeting guests and getting pulled into conversation after conversation. They do it with absolute grace and tireless composure of course, though my feet started hurting vicariously just watching them. I've done my Maid of Honor duty by making sure to send every tray of food that's come my way in Caroline's direction with strict instructions not to take no for an answer, which earned me a grateful smile from Caroline and a tip of a drink from Stefan.

I don't know anyone at the party really except the guests of honor and Damon, but he's been busy socializing as well. So it's been my party entertainment to engage in my favorite spectator sport, people watching, following Caroline and Stefan as they work the crowd.

They've occasionally been dragged in different directions, but they always end up back together. It's a lovely thing to behold, giving me a sense of giddiness and sighing satisfaction that can only be described as warm and fuzzy. What better fate could I ask for my two best friends than to find true love? The fact that it was with each other was just the cherry on top of my already overflowing sundae.

I think of what it must be like to be in love, to be so intertwined with someone that your very skin craves constant contact with them. I think of my parents, the way they looked at each other, the way they were always touching each other too. Tears ache behind my eyes. It was the same for them. I never asked them, but I know it. It was impossible for them to hide.

My thoughts stray to Damon and his wife. What was their relationship like? Did they have the kind of love Caroline and Stefan do? Like my Mom and Dad did?

What would it be like to crave the skin of someone you could never touch again?

I feel twitchy, suddenly desperate to move. The thoughts I'm having are not thoughts I want to be having in public, in front of everyone. Thoughts like this feel too big to go unheard by the people around you, too raw to not be seen scrawled across your forehead like a string of scarlet letters.

I grab my clutch and stand, smoothing my dress. I look up, searching for what, I don't know. But then, a muted light catches my eyes from the far left side of the lawn, and I recognize it as the entrance to the garden. Perfect.

I slip off my shoes midway across the grass, where the ambient light of the party begins to fade. The grass feels cool between my toes, earthy and delightfully solid. I sigh out a deep breath. I feel better already.

The sounds of chattering voices and laughter fade the further I go, so that when I reach the mouth of the garden, it feels like I've discovered something I wasn't intended to find. I inhale the fragrance of flowers and the faintest hint of evergreen branches, and I feel my shoulders relax even more.

Little lanterns hang from hooks along the path, the ones I must have mistaken for fairy lights earlier this evening. The uneven stone path is even cooler than the grass, and rougher, sending goosebumps sweeping over my arms at the abrupt change in temperature. I pull my cashmere wrap over my shoulders. Crickets chirp in the bushes nearby. I hear them quiet as I pass and then pick up again once I've moved on, and I smile at the thought of them, looking questioningly at the mysterious interloper I must appear to be from their hiding places in the bushes.

The garden is bigger than I thought, spreading out into different paths that lead to little areas, each of them arranged and planted differently, like rooms in a living museum.

I move further in, searching each space for the special something that will be enough of a lure to inspire me to stop my explorations and sit. I follow the path around a corner, and am about to keep going when I notice that there is another space hiding behind a wall of shrubbery, the opening barely visible from where I'm standing on the main path. I walk over to the concealed entrance and peer inside.

There, on a stone bench overlooking a small Koi pond, sits Damon, staring into the water.

His suit jacket sits draped on the bench beside him, and his tie is loosened. As predicted, his hair is back to its usual mussed self and the party isn't even halfway over. It makes me want to laugh, and I am about to say hello and tease him about it when something about the set of his shoulders, the heaviness of his head gives me pause. For a moment I wonder if I should leave him alone. But then my shoulder brushes the hedge next to me and he looks up at the noise, his eyes like liquid silver in the dim lantern light. When he sees me, he looks stunned, but I also see that it wasn't my imagination. His eyes are sad and my heart aches for whatever made them that way.

"Hi," I say, looking guiltily up at him through my lashes. "I wasn't standing here long, I promise."

"Hey," he says, looking surprised but not unhappy to see me. "What were you doing here then, if not spying on me and my sophisticated party companions?" he asks, indicating the fish with a sweep of his hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Same thing you're doing, I guess," I say, going out on a limb. "Trying to get a little time alone." He just smiles at me, the sort of unreadable smile that I want to lean into, to unlock somehow.

After a short pause, I speak up. "Well, I'll leave you to it." I offer him a shy smile and turn to leave.

"No, wait," he calls, and I turn back to him. "What good is solitude without someone to share it with?" His eyes dance playfully. I smile.

"Well, for starters, it's not really solitude," I say, going for a joke, but cringe internally when it sounds too know-it-all-y. There is something about this garden. It feels sacred, a place where all your secrets are kept, where only the truest words can be spoken. I decide to err on the side of transparency. "Are you sure, Damon? If you want to be alone, I completely understand."

"It's not that I wanted to be alone, per se, I just sort of…needed a break from the crowd," he says carefully. I nod sympatheically.

"Is two a crowd?" he asks.

"What?" I say, confused.

"Is two a crowd?" he says again, lifting his suit jacket from its spot next to him on the bench, laying it on his lap before patting the now open space on the bench next to him.

I smile and start to make my way down the stone path toward him. I sit, and notice how close he is on this tiny bench. I can feel the ripple of his body heat against my arm. I resist the urge to lean into it.

"You had to pick the one with the pond, didn't you?" I say, nudging him playfully, unable to resist just a little of his warmth against my skin.

"Don't worry, if the fish organize an attack and start dragging you in, I'll save you."

"Wow, thanks," I chuckle. "You never know with Francesca, I guess. For all we know these Koi fish are hyper-intelligent Piranha cross-breeds. And we didn't even bring our machetes."

He laughs heartily, and it loosens something in my chest, to know I made him smile when he was so sad. I peer into the pond. Little coins glint from the shallow bottom, and an infinitesimal part of me that was still wary of the water breathes a tiny sigh of relief. "You're lucky I can make out the bottom of the pond," I murmur, almost to myself.

"Does that help?" he says, his expression suddenly serious. He is so close I can see the grain of his skin, the distinct line where the crimson of his lips end and the cream of his face begins. My heart stutters and my skin warms. "Being able to see the bottom."

"Yeah, I guess it does," I say, prying my eyes away from him to look at the suddenly fascinating fish, floating lazily in the water.

"What is it with baths then?" he asks.

"Being submerged," I say, without hesitation, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

"Mmm," he hums in acknowledgement. "Makes sense." He gazes back into the pond. _Uh-uh, I don't want him to start hiding behind the therapy thing._

"But enough about me, Damon. I don't want a free therapy session right now. What about you? What were you thinking about before I so rudely interrupted you?"

The corners of his mouth turn up, but after just a moment, it fades. He looks up at my face, searching me as he seems to measure something in his mind. He looks back at the water.

"Katherine," he says, and it's almost a whisper.

My blood rushes in my ears. He's never talked to me about her before.

"What about her?" I say, forcing my voice to stay hushed and even, afraid if I speak too loud or sound too eager he will spook and lock down.

He sighs deeply, still staring into the pond as his eyes churn and storm in the dim light.

"It's complicated," he says finally.

I wait, but he doesn't speak. "You miss her," I say, and it isn't a question.

"Yes, I guess you could say that," he says, and his mouth quirks up again but his eyes don't follow.

My heart aches in my chest for him, echoing the horrible pain of loss that only very unfortunate people ever come to know.

"She was a pro at navigating parties like this. I didn't realize until she was gone how much I relied on her to get me through them." He stares at his hands, his fingertips absently massaging the bare space on the third finger of his left hand. "She was a lot like Francesca," he says after a long pause, and I have to work hard to conceal the shock I feel. Damon? With someone like Francesca? Somehow I can't picture it.

He doesn't speak, and my thoughts make their way to my mouth on their own accord. "That must be why you and Francesca are so close," I venture.

The look Damon gives me is like a cross between affront and confusion.

"Aren't you though? Are you not close? I just thought...the way you two were…I don't know," I stammer, turning redder by the second. "Francesca certainly seems to like you," I manage.

His confused expression breaks and turns into amused understanding. "Yes, Francesca does indeed…_like_ me a little too much." A flash of guilt crosses his features before he runs his hands through his hair and looks away. "I might be the tiniest bit guilty of encouraging it," he shrugs. "But she's the key to my father. And I don't want to leave Stefan and Caroline to fend for themselves every family dinner, every get-together." He shakes his head. "He can be very manipulative. And Stefan is so…" he trails off. "Well, he's my little brother, I guess. I don't trust my Father not to ruin him with all his grand plans for his life."

He looks up at me. "He hated Caroline, you know," he says resentfully. "Said she was a 'distraction.' Couldn't even see how much Stefan loved her, that she was different, through the haze of his ambition. At any rate, I got Francesca to fall in love with her. And then, of course, Father changed his tune. Now he fawns over her like the daughter he never had." He looks disgusted. "I'm not sure Caroline even knows how duplicitous he can be."

"So, you go to the family dinners to protect Stefan and Caroline?" I ask, processing everything he just told me as best I can. "Does Stefan know this?"

"I don't know," Damon says, rubbing his eyes wearily.

I pause, trying to choose the right words. In the end, I decide just to go with the most straightforward version of my question I can come up with. "Do you think Stefan still needs you to be there?"

Damon sighs. "Probably not," he admits. "Old habits die hard, I guess," he says, his thoughts far away.

Another long pause. I have hunch, and decide to follow it. "How was it, Damon, for you and Stefan? After your mom died."

His head snaps up to me, shock just barely covering the deep well of vulnerability that has opened up behind it. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up but I hold his gaze, forcing calm into my body, gentling him with my patience.

He looks away and clears his throat before shaking his head. "Why are you asking me all this, Elena?" When his eyes find mine again they are piercing, fluid with unrest and bearing the edge of a challenge. I don't flinch away from them. I don't shrink from his reaction, this truth that has weaseled itself past his measured words and defenses. I want to show him that the current beneath his placid sea of composure is safe. Safe with me.

I search my mind for the answer that will tell him how I feel without giving too much away. When the words come to my mind, they are so perfect in their simplicity that I can't shy away. Here in this garden of truth and secrets, it is the _only_ thing to say.

"Because I care about you, Damon."

My heart is racing, but I force myself to let the words linger, to find their way into his heart where he will remember them. They sound painfully intimate in the quiet, with only crickets and lanterns to witness us, to cushion the raw reality of the words as they hang between us.

The harshness leaves his eyes and is replaced by a sort of unguarded bewilderment; that for just one brief moment makes him look like the lonely boy I know he has been, that he may yet be, though he takes great pains to make sure no one knows.

I watch as he searches for the truth behind my confession, and suddenly, the perplexity shifts. That roiling intensity that is always catching me off guard flares in the silver of his irises, and I feel it sear my skin in a tumbling wave, so that every inch of me hums to life.

His eyes dart to my lips. Suddenly, I am aware of his breath fanning across my face. The heat of his body against mine. Would he kiss me? God, I want him to. What would that mean?

It would mean everything.

And it would also _ruin_ everything.

My shawl slips from my shoulder, and his eyes drop to follow the movement. I know my chest is heaving which will show him how much I am panting and I am suddenly brought back to myself, my gut churning with embarrassment.

I've shown him too much. If he doesn't know how much I want him now, he is blind. I pull my wrap back up over my shoulder and look away, unable to meet his eyes. I'm sure the low light won't conceal my blush.

I hear him clear his throat. "I'm sorry, Elena, I—" he stops.

I feel hot tears of shame spring behind my eyes. He knows. And of course, it's over now. The jig is up. How could he ever see me as anything now but just another girl in that long, sad line, smitten with him because he happens to be pretty?

He sighs. "I'm sorry I reacted so…defensively," he says.

_What? Am I hearing him correctly?_

I swallow around the lump in my throat and do my best to blink back my tears, a tiny bud of hope daring to bloom inside my chest.

He presses on. "You've been so…I just..." he trails off, and I catch him running his hand through his hair in my peripheral vision. It gives me courage to lift my head a little more. He looks at me, his eyes clear and imploring. "It's just, nobody asks me anything about myself anymore," he says. "Admittedly, I've kept it that way. I see that now." A smile warms his face and I feel almost giddy at the sight.

He shrugs with a contrite chuckle. "I'm just horribly out of practice." He looks down at his hands briefly before peeking back up at me. "And you may have hit a little close to home?" he poses it like a question and winces playfully. "I'm sorry," he says again, and I feel relief pouring over me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. _He doesn't know. He never has to know_.

I clear my throat. "Don't be, Damon. I shouldn't have pushed."

"No, Elena. That's just it." He captures my eyes with his. "I want you to."

He holds them for another moment, and then his expression softens, a hint of mirth sneaking in. "Turns out, having a friend like you may have been just what I needed. What I've needed for some time now." I return his smile with one of my own.

"I'm glad to hear it," I say, because I am. So incredibly, overwhelmingly glad.

He looks down. "One of these days, I'll tell you all about it. Life after Mom died," he says, his voice so low it is almost a whisper. He glances up at me, his expression pleading before it turns into a grin, his posture straightening with the controlled movement of his lips. "But as of right now, I'm afraid we may be running out of time before somebody comes looking for us about the slideshow."

"A certain somebody whose name starts with an 'F' and ends with 'ranchesca?'" I agree.

"Indeed." Damon confirms, his eyes sparkling. "And God forbid she discover where I'm always hiding at all of her parties. Besides ruining a perfectly wonderful secret spot, she might catch a whiff of the bourbon stash I keep in the bottom of the Koi pond."

"And then she'll _for sure_ replace the fish with the Piranha cross-breeds."

Damon chuckles, and I smile. It is so good to hear him laughing on the way out, after the way that I discovered him on my way in.

"How unfair to the Koi fish, who have been so good to me all these years." He stands and slings his jacket over his shoulder, offering me his hand. I think of him, coming here to this same spot, this spot not even Francesca knows he frequents. Something warm and satisfying settles in my belly.

He shared it with me.

I hook the strap of my shoes through my finger and grab my clutch before taking his proffered hand. His touch moves through me like a current but this time, it isn't so much an electric shock as a warming ripple, emanating from my fingers where they are wrapped in his and moving up and out, seeping into my bones, sinew and muscle, over every inch of skin covering my body.

I look at him, and see that he is looking at me strangely, a quiet question that I can't identify waiting behind his eyes. Before I can decipher it, he tugs lightly, pulling me to my feet. His eyes sweep ahead, to the path back to the party, a short walk and a world away.

"After you, _Signorina_," he says, his voice husky. I snuggle closer into my wrap, a cover for my answering shiver against his too-keen eye.

"Thank you, _Signore_," I return, offering him a smile before I make my way onto the path.

I think I felt his thumb brush over my knuckles just once before he drops my hand.

But I can't be sure.

###

When we emerge, Damon's jacket and tie back in place and my shoes refastened, we are lucky to find that we've returned just in time. For a woman who wanted nothing to do with any of our input, Francesca looks awfully stressed about it not being pulled off, searching the crowd with the determined look of a retriever without a stick.

Damon waves to her, and the flash of relief in her otherwise breezy smile is the only indicator that she's been worried about our whereabouts at all. She makes her way over to us, cutting through the crowd like a pink and caramel-colored Ginsu knife.

"Damon!" she chirps, a little louder than is absolutely necessary. "It's time for the slideshow, dear! The servers are ready with the champagne and dessert trays."

"Where are Caroline and Stefan?" I ask, even though she has completely ignored my presence.

She looks at me with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and she is just about to open her mouth when I hear Caroline's voice coming from my left.

"Elena, there you are!" she yells, pulling me into another bone crushing hug. I ignore Francesca and the undoubtedly complimentary but soul-crushing words she was planning on supplying, and focus all of my attention on the bride-to-be and her fiancé standing behind her.

"Oh my God, Elena, I'm so sorry I haven't had a chance to hang with you this whole entire time! We just couldn't get away." She glances back at Stefan, who nods gravely in agreement.

"Well I'm glad you found me now," I say, smiling at the two of them. "But I just have to run real quick and make sure that—"

I'm interrupted by the sound of feedback over the sound system. I look around, searching for the source of the noise, and that's when I see Damon, standing near the projector with a microphone in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.

"Excuse me. Hello everyone. Can I get your attention up here?" his voice booms over the loudspeaker. A reluctant hush falls over the crowd as faces turn their attention to his lean form next to the giant screen beside him.

He clears his throat and begins to speak clearly and confidently into the microphone.

"My name is Damon Salvatore, and as you may or may not know, I am Giuseppe's son and most importantly, the future groom's older brother."

Caroline slides her arm through mine, and I see her looking lovingly at Stefan before she turns to beam at me, her eyes already brimming with emotion when nothing at all has even begun to happen. I squeeze her arm and smile at her, tsking lightly at her almost-tears before looking to Damon again.

"I also happen to be the Best Man, and I don't think I could be a good Best Man or brother for that matter if I didn't at least _attempt_ to ruin the perfection of this party by embarrassing my baby brother into a quick elopement." A delighted murmur ripples through the crowd.

"Of course," he continues, "no truly great feat is pulled off alone and I have to offer my thanks to the ever-so-patient Francesca. Her willingness to allow me and my partner in crime to impose ourselves onto one of her infamous events has made all of this possible."

A clatter of applause rises up in the crowd, and Caroline and I join in with our arms still linked. I feel a pang of disappointment drop into my stomach in spite of myself. I am glad not to have to speak in front of this many people, but I hope Stefan and Caroline know I was in on the surprise too.

"And speaking of my partner in crime," Damon continues and I gulp. Apparently I wasn't forgotten after all. He searches for me in the crowd and when he finds me, his eyes lock with mine. The look he gives me is filled with all the secrets we have kept—in the month we spent making sure this video came together as well as just a few moments ago, in the quiet of a hidden garden a world away from here.

"The most credit for what you are about to see goes to my dear friend and accomplice, Elena Gilbert, who, aside from being the most thoughtful and dedicated Maid of Honor I have ever known, also happens to be the mastermind of this video from start to finish." A server walks by and startles me by placing a bubbling champagne flute in my hand with a pleasant smile. I nod gratefully and turn my attention back to Damon.

"Without her disturbingly blasé attitude towards breaking and entering…" a titter moves through the crowd, and Caroline looks at me questioningly as he continues, "…hacking into her best friends' personal electronics…" Stefan peeks over Caroline's shoulder to fix me with a good-natured glare. I bat my eyelashes in feigned innocence. "And just her all around appetite for getting up to no good, none of this would have been possible."

People are outright chuckling now, following Damon's line of sight to glance back and search for me. I feel myself turning bright red. I focus on Damon's eyes.

He waits for the crowd to settle, and a hush falls over the night anew. "Elena's friendship is something I've heard raved about for many years, by both Stefan _and_ Caroline and I must say, I had always been a skeptic. Who was this woman who had earned such a high place in the hearts of both my brother and my lovely future sister-in-law? People I respect greatly and love dearly." I hear Caroline sniffle noisily next to me. "Tales of her dedication and selflessness seemed too good to be true. But then…" I feel my blood rushing in my veins.

"But then, I got a chance to witness the breadth of her dedication and selflessness myself, watching her toil tirelessly over this gift for her dearest friends." His eyes bore into me and his words seep into the holes they leave, warming me from the inside out. "And in the process, I was even fortunate enough to experience the distinct honor of her friendship for myself, a gift for which I will be owing Caroline and Stefan for a very long time."

I blush at him, and he smiles back me. And there is no one else. No one and nothing else but his kind words, his soft eyes, our secrets.

He looks over the crowd.

"So without further ado, let's raise our glasses to the future Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore, Stefan and Caroline." Damon lifts his glass, and then the air is filled with shimmering champagne flutes, a sea of crystal and gold in the warm candlelight.

"Brother, sister, to you. May your lives be long and filled with love for each other, and your hearts be filled with forgiveness for your brother and your best friend." A chuckle goes through the crowd. "To Stefan and Caroline!"

An excited exclamation of jumbled agreement makes its way through the crowd along with the sound of clinking glasses, and suddenly, all the light but the flickering of the candles goes out.

An awed oooh breathes through the darkness and the video begins.

Caroline's hand slides down to interlock her fingers with mine as the first images come up on the screen, and Stefan snakes his arm around her to squeeze my shoulder, offering me an affectionate smile. I squeeze his fingers with my free hand and return his grin with one of my own before we both turn our heads to the screen before us.

Images of Stefan and Caroline materialize and dissolve across the screen in time to their most meaningful songs, intermixed with video clips Damon and I managed to snatch off their phones. I even had my friend in marketing who does work on my client's book trailers help me arrange it, add text, and spruce up the transitions. I have to admit, it looks _gorgeous_, especially on the giant screen; the music booming dramatically into the summer night.

Caroline squeezes my hand and flashes me looks of disbelief when certain more-difficultly-acquired photos or clips come up, but I know I'm forgiven because of the happy tears streaming down her face. She releases my hand to pull a tiny Kleenex pack from her clutch to dab at her makeup, but of course she remembered to wear waterproof so the damage is minimal.

The crowd laughs and sighs on cue, and I feel satisfaction and relief filling me in turn. All these weeks of planning and plotting and sneaking and emailing. We pulled it off. Just then I am startled by a rumbling whisper that the sparkling of my skin tells me can only belong to one person.

"Hey, partner," Damon says.

"Hey," I breathe, smiling shyly. "Thank you, by the way," I say, nodding towards the left of the projector where he was standing when he delivered his speech. "That was very sweet."

"It was only the truth, Elena," Damon says, his voice and his shrug lighthearted, but his eyes betraying the feeling behind his words.

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. I let the happy silence between us linger as the video plays on. It has the effect of making me extra aware of him. I force myself to watch to the screen ahead of me, even though I have almost every second of this video committed to memory.

A video of Stefan, in a rare state of outright drunkenness confessing his undying love for Caroline and extolling her many virtues into my camera phone flashes across the screen and the whole crowd starts laughing and clapping. I glance over at Stefan, and he is bright red but laughing along too.

I release Caroline's hand and put my arm around her to squeeze Stefan's shoulder the same way he did mine earlier, a tiny apology. He grins and shakes his head, squeezing my hand back. I let my fingers slip from his shoulder and as I rest them on Caroline's, Stefan laces his arm around her waist. After a quick dab to her cheeks and eyes, Caroline does the same to mine.

My attention strays to Damon, and I see that he is looking at us with an indulgent smile. I'm not sure but I think I might also see just the tiniest hint of longing as well. When his eyes find and capture mine, they start out gentle, but I see how they begin to swirl and shift, melting and re-solidifying into that molten silver-blue that seems to see everything but reveal nothing, that can bring awareness to my skin without his even having to touch me.

I consider offering him my hand, but when it comes down to it, my courage fails me. The moment passes.

The night goes on, highlighted by golden-buttery cream-filled poufs and melt-in-your-mouth flourless chocolate cake, music and dancing and twinkle lights that burn long into the night. But what burns behind my eyes and over my skin long after I've returned to my hotel room in the wee hours is not the lights, not the feel of my best friends' hands in mine, their arms around me.

It is Damon's face. Damon's touch.

And the truth behind all of the secrets I have been keeping.

Secrets that not even the garden can know.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you to EVERYONE who left me reviews and favorited/followed this week! Please be a pal and feed my muse with more review lovin' this week...I'm writing the final 9 chapters of this fic over the next 9 weeks (hopefully) and need all the juice I can get to make the end of this journey the epic one you all deserve!_

_Endless beta thanks to the illustrious Trogdor19. I wish you a warm bubble bath with Damon in it and a paint horse named Moon Shadow Dancer and a fish tank full of machete-wielding Koi-ranhas. Preferably not all in the same place at the same time, since what good is Damon in a bubble bath unless you get to be alone? (you don't want to scar Moon Shadow Dancer for life). AND thanks upon thanks to the magnificent Goldnox, who came up with the beautiful title of this chapter, and who made my icky finger picking into a sweet moment of touching marital remembrance. You are genius woman. Goosebumps! All the Goosebumps!_

_AND THANK YOU to these same two lovely ladies for plugging my fic: Trogdor19 on her Happily Ever After: Salvatore Style redirection page (After you read Desperate Love, you will need the warm and fuzzy and sweet and touching cool-down that is this lovely story so DOWNLOAD IT), and Goldnox on her HOT HOT SMOKIN HOT HOLY HELL IT'S HOT one shot, By Any Other Name. Go and read it NOW people...it will help hold you over until Delena in my story finally give in to each other...and then some! HOT!_

_Don't miss out! Follow! Favorite! Review!_

_Love to you all._

_NightLight_


	12. Ch 12 - The Contraband and the Call

**Chapter 12: The Contraband and the Call**

"Hey, Elena, come on in," Damon says, a wide smile brightening his face.

"Thanks," I say, returning his smile as I breeze past him into his office and take my usual spot on the smaller couch.

Damon flops down onto the seat facing me with a heavy sigh. "So…" he says, his eyes dancing.

"So…" I repeat with a grin, catching his infectious good mood.

"Have you recovered?" he asks. "From your first Francescan soiree? Sometimes it takes a little while for the imprint of twinkle lights to fade from your peripheral vision."

"It wasn't the party I needed recovering from," I say. "It was the _house_. Holy hell, Damon! One day you have got to tell me how it is that you're…_you_ after growing up living like _that_."

"Well, oddly enough, there are actually some things money _can't _buy," Damon says, his eyes taking on the slightest hint of darkness behind his playful expression.

Before I have a chance to respond, a buzzing noise sounds from his desk. His iPhone.

"Hold on, Elena, I'm so sorry." He walks over to his desk and glances at the screen. A line of worry appears between his eyes. I know it is a work call, because I see how his spine straightens and his shoulders pull back, his entire demeanor changing from friendly to professional before my eyes. "Damn it, it's my emergency line," he says before looking up at me apologetically.

"Take it, Damon, I completely understand," I say, anticipating the question in his eyes. "Do you want me to..." I say, pointing a thumb at the door.

"No, no, stay. This shouldn't take too long."

"Okay, no problem. Take your time," I say.

He flashes me a grateful look and taps the "accept" button. "Hello? Cl…hey, Claudia, easy now." His voice is even and soothing as he steps out of the room and into the hallway.

And just like that, I'm alone in Damon's office.

I pull out my own iPhone and check my email for any under-the-wire correspondence that might have come in since I left from work. Nothing. I hear his muffled voice in the hallway, speaking in a calming cadence between long bouts of listening. I'm afraid if I don't distract myself I'm going to overhear something so I stand up and scan the room, looking for something that will do the trick.

I was headed to the bookshelf. I really was.

But in order to get there, I had to pass by Damon's desk. And I've always wondered what could be on it, making all that mess, taking up all that space.

His laptop sits in the middle of his desk, closed. Around it, I see stacks of insurance paperwork and bills and other official looking things that I studiously avoid. A small pile of notes with phone numbers and names scrawled in quickly-written but surprisingly neat handwriting. Even the names are things I shouldn't see. _Damn, I shouldn't be doing this_. I start to pull my eyes away, when something strangely familiar yet entirely out of place catches my eye.

A manuscript.

What is Damon doing with a manuscript?

Curiosity sends my hand reaching out against the loud, arm-waving protests of my conscience. My heart is racing with the knowledge that I am officially invading Damon's privacy, but I just can't stop now. I am too close to finding out if this is what that niggling voice in the back of my mind thinks it is. I excavate it from the pile, my mind screaming with every item I touch, as though the number of things I come into contact with increases the severity of the snooping.

When it's free, I pick it up and then almost drop it again when I read what is written on the cover page. It is one thing to have an itty-bitty hunch and quite another to see it right before your eyes in bold print:

**Honest to Goodness:**

Why Honesty is Almost Never the Easiest But Always the Best Policy

**By: Damon Salvatore**

I blink, trying to process what I'm seeing.

Damon wrote a book.

I glance towards the door. He is still outside, talking and listening, listening and talking. It seems like it might take a while.

I look down at my ill-gotten contraband.

I open the first page.

And God help me, I start to read.

###

"Elena?"

This is all I hear.

Not the sound of Damon's conversation ending outside. Not even the sound of the door opening as he reenters the room.

Just Damon's surprised voice as I'm caught red-handed, perched on the edge of his desk and 30 pages into his book.

"Damon!" I all but yell, shooting off his desk and snapping the manuscript shut.

His eyes are wide as he takes in the scene. "Is that my…how did you…?" he stammers.

"Oh. My _God_, Damon I am so _so sorry_. I just…"

"Whoa, Elena," Damon says, holding up his hands to stop me and then covering his eyes as he shakes his head. "Just…hold on a second." Lord help me, he can't even look at me. _Dammit, what was I thinking?_

He finally looks up and moves his hand away.

And I am utterly confused.

"So, let me get this straight," he says, stalking towards me. His expression has gone back to being unreadable. His eyes are twinkling but I don't completely trust it.

I gulp and force every muscle in my body to freeze.

"While I was on an emergency phone call, you snooped around my desk, found my copy of my book, and just decided you'd go ahead and start reading it?"

_God, it sounds so horrible when he says it out loud like that_.

"Maybe," I squeak.

He pauses for a long second, and I don't breathe.

But then he throws his head back in a hearty laugh that makes me jump it is so unexpected.

By the time Damon is wiping a tear from his eye from laughing so hard, some of my anxiety has melted away, replaced instead with annoyance at not being in on a joke that I'm fairly certain is at my expense.

"Oh, Elena, you should have seen your face," Damon says, still chuckling and swiping at another tear as he finally begins to settle. "God, that was awesome."

I flash him a put-upon look.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he says, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. "I couldn't help it! You just looked so…"

"So what?" I ask.

His eyes search mine though they are still bright with mirth. He presses his lips together and shakes his head, but a smile is still trying to break though. "It was just funny, that's all," he finishes, though I'm almost sure he was about to say something else.

As my fear of his reaction fades, white-hot mortification takes its place. I shuffle my feet and look down at the floor but keep the manuscript clutched to my chest, afraid if I let go of it I'll be relinquishing it somehow. And as embarrassed as I am, I am just not ready to do that yet.

"Damon, I'm really sorry. I saw it there and just got carried away."

"It's okay, Elena, honestly. I was working up the courage to give it to you anyways."

"_Honestly_, haha," I say, peeking up at him from under my lashes, even as my face burns.

A wide grin breaks out across Damon's face. "Well, well, looks like _somebody_ is picking up some of my first-rate sense of humor," he smirks triumphantly. "You're welcome," he says, sweeping his hand and nodding his head in a tiny mock bow.

"Couldn't resist," I say, flashing him a shy smile. In the long pause that follows, I work up the courage to ask the question that's been gnawing at the back of my mind.

"Damon?" I say, my voice sounding more fragile than I intended. "Were you _really_ going to show it to me?"

"Of course, Elena, why wouldn't I?"

"It's just…" I shrug, trying to look casual. "I told you about what happened with BigLittle and you know all about my panic attacks and how they've gotten in the way of my work, and I just thought…" I stammer, then realize with horror that I sound as incapable as he must think I am. I straighten, reaching for my composure.

"You know, I'm the youngest senior editor at Michaelson Literary Management and I've sold a lot of successful books and brokered a lot of great deals for a very high profile list of authors and…" My voice wavers and then breaks apart. I can't even finish my pitch. Damon steps towards me, his eyes worried.

"Whoa, Elena, hold on," he soothes, his voice low and gentle. He reaches for me but falters in midair, his hands falling away. He blinks a few times, his shoulders tightening as he takes the tiniest of steps away from me.

"Elena, what is this about, really?" he asks softly.

I close my eyes and feel my whole body deflating. I choke back a small sob as I slip from between him and the desk to flop into my regular seat on the couch, making a grab for the Kleenex. Me and the tissue box are old friends now.

"It's just, you had it sitting there. And I was just wondering if you were…debating. About showing it to me, I mean. Maybe you were going to give it to Caroline to pass along to someone else, or…"

"Elena," Damon interrupts as he sits down across from me, his voice warm and rumbly. The sound settles over my chest, steadying me. "My not having shown you the manuscript yet has nothing at all to do with what I think of you or your ability to do your job."

"Really?" I hiccup, biting my lip and trying to force back my ridiculous tears. Any hope of appearing professional is officially and decisively out the window.

"Really, Elena, I promise."

"Then what was it?" I ask, sounding embarrassingly small. I scrub at the last of the moisture under my eyes.

He studies me for a short pause. His expression flashes with a spectrum of emotions I only catch the tiniest hint of before they are gone. I see him swallow hard before he speaks.

"I was afraid it wasn't good enough," he says, and the vulnerability in his eyes betrays the simple words for what they really are: a confession. "I just wanted it to be good enough, before I showed it to you."

His eyes dart between mine in the ensuing silence. I wait, watching them fill with unspoken words, sifting and seeking for the ones he is willing to say.

He glances away and sighs deeply, scrubbing the back of his neck before turning to me once more. "When I was little, I drew a picture of this sort of swashbuckling, crime-fighting, three-musketeers type character I had made up. You know, boy stuff." He shrugs, the hint of a wry smile plays across his lips. "Anyways, I brought it to my father, and he spent the next 15 minutes showing me all the things that were wrong with it before patting me on the back and telling me that 'Salvatores never leave a job half-finished' and to bring it back when it was done."

He shoves a hand through his hair and looks up at me, and I don't miss the hurt hiding behind his carefully casual demeanor. "Daddy isses, mommy issues...we've all got 'em or I wouldn't be in business, right?" he laughs, the sound too forcibly light to ring true.

I think of meeting Giuseppe at the wedding shower. He seemed warm enough, polite and charming, just like his sons. But I remember the crisp white of his shirt beneath his immaculately tailored suit jacket, his flawlessly stylized hair. The way his cuff links peeked out from under his jacket sleeves, the tiny squares set at an exact 90 degree angle to his sleeve edge, gleaming with polished perfection.

"Anyways," Damon continues, "I keep reading it over, looking for ways to make it better and no matter how many times I do it, there's always _something_. It's just..." he trails off. "I'm not a writer. But then this idea just sort of came to me. And before I knew it, a couple of chapters here and there materialized into a full-fledged book, and I…" he stops again. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he admits with a chuckle, but it sounds brittle beneath the weight of his barely concealed anxiety. "And you read professional writers' manuscripts every day." He shrugs, attempting nonchalance with only moderate success. "I just didn't know if it was worth bothering you with it. I couldn't tell and I didn't want to show you until I knew."

"Damon," I say, shaking my head as I attempt to absorb everything he's just told me. "You're right about one thing. Reading manuscripts _is_ a big part of my job." I look at him with wide, earnest eyes, my tears forgotten. "And as someone who reads manuscripts for a living, I need you to know that this is not just okay," I say, placing his manuscript flat on my lap and laying my splayed palm over it. "I mean, I haven't gotten very far, but from what I read, it's not just good, Damon, it's _damn_ good."

For a long moment, Damon just stares at me, his eyes darting back and forth between mine. And then I get to watch as a slow smile breaks out across his face.

"Really?" he asks.

"Really," I confirm with a nod, returning his grin.

We sit for a long moment, neither of us knowing what to say next.

"So, now what?" he ventures tentatively, not dropping my gaze.

"You tell me," I reply, shrugging a shoulder in an attempt to hide the eagerness doing high kicks in my chest.

After a long moment he looks away as he rakes a hand through his hair, over the back of his neck, thinking.

"Well, I didn't get a chance to do one last run-through," he says.

And I know I've got him.

I feel like dancing but my long years of practice dealing with this very same situation tells me to keep my poker-face on until the deal is sealed.

"_But_…" I supply when he doesn't continue, the corners of my mouth twitching with the effort of trying not to smile.

Damon smirks knowingly at me. I should have known I couldn't hide my excitement from him. "But now that the cat is out of the bag, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let you take a look at it," he says indulgently. "Just for feedback, of course," he adds quickly.

"Of course," I agree, nodding vigorously.

And I have to stop myself from actually acting out the Breakfast Club fist-pump my insides are doing.

I hug the manuscript, feeling giddy with delight that not only is Damon a secret writer, he's kind of amazing at it. That small chunk I got a chance to read was so fresh and snarky and fun—it gave me that goosebumpy feeling, that magic I only ever feel when I am reading something special. Something big.

"You get pretty possessive over manuscripts, don't you?" Damon says, an amused smirk curling his lips. "I think I would have had to pry that thing out of your arms with a crowbar if I hadn't agreed to let you take it home."

I shrug a lazy shoulder. "You don't get to where I am in this industry without a little tenacity, Damon." I say, oozing sarcastic cockiness. "Don't be fooled by my unimposing exterior. Put yourself between me and a manuscript and you will know the unique brand of pain that only Elena Gilbert can bring."

"Well a wise woman _did_ once tell me never to judge a book by its cover," Damon says, and I smile. I said that at Mama Dinna's an age ago. "But I never would have pegged you for playing _that_ dirty, Gilbert. Tears?" He shakes his head, making a tsking sound. "Don't you know what watching a woman cry does to a man? That's definitely hitting below the belt."

"What?" I say, dripping incredulity. "I call foul. You are a _therapist_, Damon. You've seen me and probably a hundred other women cry, what, like a million times by now?"

"Still," he says, his brow furrowing. He looks so much like Stefan, all earnest forehead-crinkling concern, that I have to suppress a giggle.

My mind keeps jumping back to the manuscript like a junky fiending for a fix. I can't wait to get home and it's already 40 minutes into my 50-minute therapy hour.

"Well, I don't know about you but I've worked up an appetite," I say as casually as I can. "Walk me out?"

"Of course, Elena," Damon says, sounding vaguely disappointed and taking a quick glance at his watch before placing his hands on his thighs and pushing himself up to standing. I follow suit.

"So sorry about that phone call tonight. I can try to reschedule you for some time later this week…?"

"No, no that's fine. I'm doing okay."

"Are you?" Damon asks, looking me over with that now-familiar appraising expression that makes me feel like he could see right through my skin, my bones.

"Yeah, I think I am," I say. "I haven't had a full-blown attack since the one at the office."

"Okay good," he nods. "You know who to call if you do start to feel something coming on?" His face is earnest, entreating. I'm reminded of Caroline begging me to call her, and I smile. It's nice to not have to rely on her for at least this anymore.

"I do indeed," I say with a smile.

We move through the familiar motions, a well-practiced dance now from our many evenings together in this office. I gather my things, he grabs a few items from his desk, slips on his jacket. He holds the door open for me, and I wait while he locks up. He falls into step with me as we begin to make our way down the hall.

"So are you headed out for food?" Damon asks casually.

"Nope," I reply, knowing he'll see my grin even if I don't look at him.

"I thought you said you were hungry," Damon says, sounding confused.

"Yup," I say, and shoot him a mischievous smile from behind the curtain of hair that has fallen over the side of my face. I tuck it back.

A wide grin curls his lips as realization dawns.

"You're going home aren't you?"

"Yup."

"And what are you planning on doing when you get there, pray tell?"

"Oh, I don't know. I was thinking about painting my toenails, brushing up on my French, maybe counting some bricks on the building outside my window." His eyes are bright with a pent-up chuckle. "_Oh yeah_, and there's this new manuscript I've been dying to read, so…" I flash him a teasing smile. "I might get to that. We'll see."

"Sounds like a fun night," Damon smiles, trying to play along, but it doesn't quite mask the apprehension that is suddenly swirling behind his eyes. I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard and looks down.

We get to the elevator and I press the "down" button. I want to touch his face so badly, to run my hands over the tightness of his jaw, to smooth the lines of worry from around his eyes with my fingertips. But I don't. All I have are words, so I use them instead. I make them as soft as my hands would be, as soothing as I would make my touch.

"Damon, don't worry. I see all kinds of manuscripts in every state imaginable. I don't need it to be perfect to get it—I'm an expert at spotting diamonds in the rough. _And_, you already have the benefit of my knowing that I like what I've read so far." I flash him my most reassuring smile, fighting the overwhelming urge to touch his arm. When he still looks unsure, I add consolingly, "I'm just looking it over. No big deal."

"Okay," he nods, but by the looks of his troubled expression, my pep talk barely made a dent. We step into the elevator.

A thought comes to my mind, making me grin. "So what was the name of your character?" I ask.

"What?" he says, looking utterly confused.

"Your swashbuckling musketeer guy," I say. "Did he have a name?"

Damon's face flushes red. "Well of course he did, but there's no way I'm telling you what it _was_," he maintains haughtily. "I've gotta hold on to whatever dignity I can, just in case you hate everything you read in that book and discover me for the sham of a writer I am."

My heart squeezes at his words, but I keep the mood light. "Show me a writer who doesn't think he's a sham and I'll show you a unicorn. They don't exist." I say, leaning in for a playful shoulder bump. "Hey, maybe for your second book you can go into children's literature and tell the harrowing tale of your sword fighting, crime obliterating hero, Señor So-and-So, but instead of a normal horse he can ride a unicorn named Lightsaber who cries rainbow Skittle tears to feed the starving children of the land. I'm just brainstorming here…"

I throw a sidelong look at Damon, and he stares at me like I've sprouted a third ear, right before he bursts out laughing. I drink in his easy mirth, unable to resist joining in myself.

"Maybe you'd better stick to reading the stories rather than writing them, Gilbert," he chuckles. "It may not be your strong suit, just sayin'."

"Well, look who's the writing expert now," I say, breathing a sigh of grateful relief. Even if he is going to go home and wring his hands raw, I'm glad I'm at least leaving him in good spirits.

After a beat I can't resist satisfying my curiosity. "So, I was wondering, when did you print the manuscript out to give it to me?"

"Actually I printed it out for my last read-through." He hesitates briefly before continuing. "I have this thing about reading on computers or digital devices. Call me old fashioned, but I just feel like I can't get the feel of a book unless I can feel the pages in my hands, you know?"

I stare at him for a long moment in disbelief. "What?" he asks, his cheeks reddening with the tiniest flush as he lifts his hand to hail a cab.

"Nothing," I say.

He flashes me a curious look, but when I don't elaborate he turns his attention to the taxi that is pulling to a halt in front of him. He leans his entire head into the passenger-side-window to take a long hard look at the driver. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. You'd think I'd never ridden in a cab before he started screening my drivers.

Apparently satisfied, Damon opens the door and steps aside so I have room to climb in, shutting it behind me once I'm safely inside. He keeps his hands on the cab, leaning forward as I peek up at him through the already rolled down window.

"I'll see you next week," I say.

"Next week," he confirms, giving a small, almost affectionate smile that looks intimate and confiding—just for me. His eyes shimmer in the streetlights as he lifts his hands from the car and steps away.

I pull my eyes reluctantly away from him. "21st and 5th." I say to the driver, and then turn back to Damon as the taxi starts to pull away from the curb and into the flow of traffic.

I hold his eyes as long as I can, watch him fading and shrinking into the distance.

When he's gone, I turn and face forward, opening the manuscript to find the spot where I left off.

###

A little after three AM, I let the last page flutter into place, joining the other 235.

I flip it over, feeling the weight of it in my hands, its deceptive lightness.

For a long time, I look straight ahead, letting my eyes remain unfocused as my mind races, processing everything I have read, everything it means.

The city hums and harmonizes outside my window, a soundtrack to my churning thoughts.

I don't know how long I sit there, deciding. But I know the moment my mind is made up.

I reach for my phone and search through my contacts. When I find the one I want, I press send and put the phone to my ear, listening as it rings. The message machine picks up. I clear my throat as I wait for the beep.

"Hi there, Sharon, this is Elena Gilbert from Michaelson Literary Management and I very strongly recommend that you hear me out. I am holding here in my hands a piece of material so unique and marketable and so perfectly suited to BigLittle that frankly, you would be a fool to pass it up because of a grudge over a missed appointment and some food poisoning. And if there's one thing your track record has shown, Sharon, it's that you are not a fool."

I pause and clear my throat. "So here's what I'm going to do. I am going to have a courier bring you a copy this morning. Bottom line, if you want this book, you are going to have to work with me. In our industry, we make a living off of judging books before they have covers. So don't make the mistake of putting me down before you even get past the prologue. What you see on the pages that follow may just surprise you. You know how to get in touch with me. I hope to hear from you soon."

I end the call and set my phone on the nightstand.

I'm not foolish enough to believe it will come to anything, but I can't _not_ try. I've worked every angle I know how to with Sharon, and she just refuses to set her ego aside; happy to lord her power over me, make a mountain out of a long-ago molehill just because she can. So why would this time be any different?

_The book_. That's what is different.

I'm sure there is a special trash pile in Sharon's office dedicated to all the manuscripts I've sent her over the years that her wounded pride wouldn't let her even open, let alone actually read.

But I know if she _does_ read it. _If…_

Just one page. All she has to do is read the first page and she will be hooked.

It's a win-win really. Damon will never know I've called Sharon. But if by some miracle she bites, I can start working my magic on Damon to convince him he needs to let me get his book published. And when—and I do mean _when_—that happens, everything will already be in place.

Klaus is probably going to be livid with me for trying this. I can already hear his measured words, each one sharpened to tiny knife points perfectly calibrated to lacerate what's left of my dwindling confidence. I shiver. But I have to do this for Damon. BigLittle is the perfect publishing house for his book, and he deserves the best.

I flick off my bedside lamp and lay the manuscript reverently on the table. I fluff my pillows and stretch out across my bed, tossing and turning in the darkness as I try to get comfortable. But it isn't my body that's restless, it's my mind.

Damon's book is absolutely perfect for the current market. His voice is a distinct and unique combination of charming self-deprecation and snarky wit that not only makes for a hell of an entertaining read, but helps make the wisdom easy to swallow. He blows all the other too-preachy self-help books that are littering the shelves—many of which I helped put there—straight out of the water.

And with a face like his to promote it, he will be the toast of every talk show, press junket and meet-and-greet he ever attends. He'll be an instant celebrity.

_If she reads it._

_Just one page._

Damon's life is never going to be the same.

* * *

_Author's Note: The plot thickens! PLEASE leave me a review and let me know what you think! I am a shameless whore for them and they make my day!_

_Thank you to all of you who Reviewed and Followed/Favorited last week! I am on vacation in Hawaii right now and thanks to you I am still super motivated and making time to write!_

_TVD PREMIERED! WERE ALL YOU DELENA FANS DYING LIKE I WAS? DELENA SUMMER SEXCAPADES! MAKING OUT LIKE LOVE-SICK TEENAGERS ON THE COUCH! GAH MY HEART!_

_Ahem (attempts to regain composure). _

_Major thanks to Trogdor19, for squeezing beta work into your busy busy week! May Lightsaber bestow you with Newman-less (irony) David Attenborough-narrated (double irony) adventures on the job as well as the most drain-iest drained pipes around. And Goldnox! Thank you for your disturbing ability to beta effectively whist combining elevator boob-flashing and spider man pajamas, to kind of creepy but seriously hilarious effect. X's and O's to you both._

_Don't forget to Follow and Favorite too because the next chapter ratchets the sexual tension UP and the one after that is Damon backstory and you don't want to miss them! _

_Have a great week!_

_XOXO,_

_NightLight_


	13. Ch 13 - The Surprise and the Salsa Club

_El carino que te tengo_  
_Yo no lo puedo negar_  
_Se me sale la babita_  
_Yo no lo puedo evitar_

The desire that I have for you  
I can't deny it  
I salivate  
I can't help it

_- "Chan Chan" by The Buena Vista Social Club_

* * *

_Author's Note: If you want to have a little fun with this chapter, queue up the above song and begin playing at the first "###." Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 13: The Surprise and the Salsa Club**

"…so we open up the box, and inside is this set of _solid gold_ salad servers. _Salad servers_, Elena. Why do I need solid gold serving-ware for lettuce? Did you even know that such a thing existed in the world?"

I chuckle and then sigh dramatically. "It's a rough life, isn't it, Caroline? Marrying for love and just lucking into the money?"

"Hey, you had a chance to call 'finders-keepers' but you introduced him to me instead," Caroline shrugs. "It isn't my fault you can't tell when Mr. Perfect is standing right in front of you."

"He's Mr. Perfect-for_-you_, Caroline, not me. We had the chemistry of a wet blanket and a spatula."

"Or my $12.99 Ikea dishware and a brand new pair of golden salad tongs."

I throw my head back and laugh. "Well, that Ikea stuff is on its way out anyways. You have all of that brand new swirly-twirly platinum-edged china to replace it now."

"_Ugh_, don't remind me," Caroline groans as we reach the door to the Square.

"Everyone knows gold and platinum look horrible together. No salad I make will ever look appetizing again," Caroline tosses over her shoulder with a mischievous smirk before heading inside and scanning the crowd. "Oh! There they are!"

"They? Did Jenna come after all?" I ask.

But Caroline is already rushing ahead, carving a path through the still-thin early crowd. And then I see him, sitting at a four-top with Stefan, the sleeves of his light grey button-down rolled back over his forearms and his fingers curled around a half-finished bourbon.

Damon.

My breath catches at the unexpected sight of him. Our interrupted session was just a few days ago. He doesn't know I finished his manuscript, or that I sent Sharon a copy. Not that it matters all that much, since my not having heard from her yet is not an encouraging sign. But seeing him drives home the reality of what I did, sending an imaginary stone dropping heavily into my gut.

That night in his office, I felt so hurt at the thought that he didn't trust me to do my job when I had put so much of my trust in him.

But now, had I betrayed him?

I clear my throat and tuck my hair behind my ear, trying to ignore the way my heart is galloping inside my chest.

Caroline calls for Stefan, and he looks up, moving to stand. I see Damon's eyes follow Stefan's line of sight and when he sees me, his mouth turns up in a tentative smile. He lifts his hand in a tiny wave, and it reminds me so much of the last time we were here together, when we were saying goodbye the night Jenna met Alaric.

He looks almost apologetic, like he is sorry to have imposed on my designated Friday-night hang. I lift my hand in an answering wave to reassure him.

We reach the table and Caroline throws herself at Stefan like she always does. It usually doesn't make me feel awkward, but with Damon right there and me not knowing an appropriate way to greet him, suddenly it does.

"Hi, Damon," I say shyly as I reach the table and put my bag down between our chairs. "Caroline didn't tell me you'd be here tonight."

"I know," Damon says guiltily. He lowers his voice conspiratorially and leans closer, so that whatever it is that makes him smell so damn good wafts towards me on the disturbed air. I want to sigh and press my face into his neck so he can fill my lungs.

"She wanted it to be a surprise. I hope that's okay." He searches my face as he pulls back, as though he is waiting for my actual answer.

"Of course, Damon. It's always great to see you," I say, trying to sound enthusiastically casual, but ending up with an embarrassing combo of breathy and needy instead.

I sit down and let my hair fall in my face while I clear my throat and compose myself. I reach for the water that is waiting in front of me and take long gulping sips, letting the cool liquid calm my suddenly overheated body.

When I finally look at him, he's smirking at me. "Thirsty?" he teases.

"Yeah I guess so," I chuckle shakily, touching my mouth nervously with my napkin. When I look back at Damon, he is sitting perfectly still, staring at my lips. When he realizes I'm watching him his eyes dart quickly to mine, flashing something bright and sharp that I can't pin down. He starts to speak, but I hear Caroline's voice instead.

"Elena, are you _surprised_?" She flutter-claps excitedly, looking back and forth between us. "How great is it that Damon was able to make it tonight? We're _finally_ all together at the Square!"

"Yeah, it looks like Damon is finally free now that his regular Friday night date has given him up for Elena's aunt," Stefan says, raising his arms defensively midway through his joke in preparation of Damon's answering punch. Damon out-manuevers Stefan's arms easily and catches him in the shoulder. Stefan dodges, but too slowly, scowling in a thoroughly unconvincing way. _Brothers_. I resist rolling my eyes with considerable effort.

When I finally allow myself a glance at Damon I see that the heaviness in his posture has lifted, replaced by the teasing version of him I have come to know.

"Now, now, boys," Caroline scolds. She reaches for Stefan's hand and squeezes it in hers, and I see him settle immediately in response. "The real reason we brought you both here tonight is to _thank you_ for the absolutely _amazing_ job you guys did on the shower," Caroline says as Stefan nods beside her. "The personal contributions you put together _absolutely made_ the _whole night_ in my opinion. That video…" She fixes me with a misty stare and releases Stefan to envelope my hand with both of hers. "Elena, it was just…"

"Violating?" Damon pipes up hopefully. "Mortifying? Proof of our flagrant disregard for your privacy?" I can't resist shooting Damon a guilty smirk at this last suggestion, finding him already grinning at me and making me wonder if he'd meant the joke more for me than them.

"_Perfect_." Caroline finishes in breathy awe, happy tears pooling at the edges of her eyes. "It was just _perfect_."

"Aww, Caroline," I croon and pull her into a hug over our corner of the table. "I'm so thrilled that you liked it," I murmur over her shoulder, grinning at an indulgently smiling Stefan, who gives me a little concurring nod.

I pull back and lovingly rearrange some of the hair that had fallen over her face. "It was our pleasure, really, sneaking around and stealing your stuff." Caroline chuckles and swipes at her eyes, sniffling.

"Yeah, and that video we found of Stefan doing that strip tease was _super_ awkward," Damon pipes up. I chuckle.

Stefan and Caroline's faces go white.

"Whoa, guys I was totally joking!" Damon says, holding his hands up. Caroline laughs nervously and smoothes a hand down her hair as Stefan lets out this sort of choked chortle that degenerates into a cough, sending him reaching for his water.

A smug smile starts to creep across Damon's face.

"Wait a second," he says slowly, leaning forward and gripping the edges of the table. "Does that video actually exist?" My manageable giggles turn into an all-out fit as I watch their mortified reactions give Damon all the confirmation he needs.

Damon turns to me, positively vibrating with excitement. "Elena, please tell me you found that video and saved it somewhere." I can almost see the visions of brotherly blackmail dancing in his head along with the sugar plums.

Stefan turns to me, looking so horrified I decide any further ribbing would be inhumane. "No, no, _no_," I choke out, shaking my head through the last of my laughter and wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. "I saw no such video." Caroline visibly relaxes and Stefan all but deflates into his chair.

"But I just need to say, the fact that we now know this video exists sort of just made my night." I share a look with Damon, who winks at me in agreement. I feel my insides warm.

At that moment, the waitress arrives with another round of drinks for the boys, a green apple martini for Caroline and a lemon drop for me.

"Wow, thanks guys," I say, looking between Stefan and Damon as I take it from the waitress. "That's so sweet of you guys to order ahead for us!"

"Yeah, well, I'm sort of regretting it now," Stefan says peevishly, but I see the smile tugging at his lips.

"Aww, don't pout, Stefan. I'm sure you were _amazing_ in that video," I say, batting my eyelashes and grinning playfully at him. Stefan gives me one of his raised-eyebrow, thin-lipped, put-out looks that is his stand in for an eye roll.

"_Super_ sexy," Damon deadpans.

"Okay, guys, that's enough," Caroline says firmly. "If you all are quite finished mocking my future husband, I'd like to propose a toast. And I'd like to get to it _before_ my drink gets warm, if you don't mind?" she says, looking at each of us chidingly in turn.

When all of us appear appropriately contrite, she clears her throat and sits up straighter in her chair, pulling her shoulders back and tossing her hair gently before lifting her glass. We all follow suit.

"To Damon and Elena, who are without a doubt the very best family Stefan and I could ever ask for." I squeeze her leg under the table and she gives me a loving nod and a wink in response. She turns to Stefan, who nods at her and flexes his hand over hers before looking back at me and Damon. "And to my incredible husband-to-be, whose sexy _sexy_ stripteases I will be looking forward to enjoying for the rest of my long life."

"Caroline!" Stefan exclaims, as she and I start giggling and Damon throws his head back in a hearty laugh.

"To sexy sexy Stefan!" Damon chuckles, lifting his bourbon a little higher before taking a sip.

"Amen!" Caroline says at the same time that I say, "Hear, hear!" And then we are clutching our stomachs and hunching over in laughter. A few drops of my drink slosh onto the table before I can get a sip but I can't even bring myself to care.

All of this time, I've never minded being the third wheel. I still don't. But having Damon here feels right in a way I can't describe.

In a way that I can't afford to analyze too closely.

###

Struck by the celebratory mood, Caroline's usual self-appointed two drink limit was broken by a third, and by the time it was down the hatch there was no dissuading her from her intense and overwhelming desire to go salsa dancing.

And that is how I came to be sitting here at the bar next to my therapist-slash-friend, Damon Salvatore, whose sex appeal was hard enough to ignore without the visual aid of dozens of slick young bodies moving suggestively to Buena Vista Social Club's "Chan Chan" just a few feet away.

Both expert and amateur dancers have been energetically twirling and hip-swiveling the night away, but the slower, more sensual tone of this song has turned the dance floor into something not unlike the set of Dirty Dancing.

This place is positively dripping in sex.

Unfortunately, it looks like my Patrick Swayze would rather be having his fingernails ripped out than sitting next to me.

Damon is facing the bar and sipping his drink, avoiding eye contact with me at all costs and fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat. His only attempts at interaction are an occasional awkward side smile. I can't fault him. There is no hope for a conversation with the music so loud.

I get an idea.

I turn toward the undulating tangle of bodies behind me, searching for Stefan and Caroline.

I wade into the crowd after them, and though I certainly wouldn't consider myself a prude, I can't help but blush at some of the "dancing" I see as I make my way. I catch a flash of a dark hand running down creamy cleavage slick with sweat. Another of hips rolling, a back arching slowly in response. A masculine hand running up toned thighs, slipping under a midnight-colored skirt. By the time I finally reach my friends, I'm not sure if the shortness of breath I'm feeling has more to do with the side-stepping and wiggling I had to do in order to reach them or…something else.

I feel my face flare red as I am forced to interrupt Caroline mid seductive slither, tapping her shoulder and doing my best to ignore Stefan's blatantly hungry eyes as he watches her.

"Caroline!" I yell, leaning close to her ear.

"Elena! Hiiiiii!" she yells and stumbles into me, enveloping me in a sticky hug.

"Hey Care!" I yell, flashing Stefan a surprised smile over her shoulder. He just grins happily, clearly feeling a little loose himself. I pull away and grab both her hands in mine. "I came to tell you that Damon and I are going to go out and get some air. Don't worry about us. We'll find our way home if it doesn't work out for us to meet up again."

"Aww, Elena, are you _sure_?" Caroline pouts. "But this is so much _fuuuunnnnn_!"

"I know, Care," I nod indulgently, moving a sweaty strand of hair off of her forehead. Poor girl is going to be feeling it tomorrow. "I love you and have a great time, okay?"

"Okay, 'Lena!" she says, giving me another hug. "Love you too!"

I lean in to whisper-yell in Stefan's ear. "Take care of our girl," I say, miming drinking and mouthing "water" to him before giving him a "do we understand each other?" nod.

"On it," he yells, winking as he salutes me. "See you later, Elena." He gives me a brief but heartfelt goodbye hug and peck on the cheek. "Tell Damon I'll call him tomorrow."

"Will do," I say, and turn to dodge and squeeze my way back to the bar.

When I reach Damon he is almost all the way through his third bourbon of the night. _Sheesh, the man really can drink when he wants to_. I tap him on the shoulder and he turns to me, looking surprised and then almost anxious again. I furrow my brow at his reaction. Why does he seem so nervous around me tonight?

"Wanna go for a walk?"

"What?" he asks, leaning his ear closer to my lips. I notice the way his dark hair curls around it, how soft and vulnerable it looks offered up to me like this. All I would have to do is move my lips a little closer, peek my tongue out and run it over the tender curve of his ear where it melts into his jaw…

_Dear God, I need to get out of here._

I clear my throat. "Wanna go for a walk?" I ask again, a little louder.

When he pulls back he is smiling. "Great idea," he says as he finishes his drink in one gulp and slaps down enough money to cover his bourbon and my club soda. He grabs his leather jacket that was slung over his lap and gets up to lead the way outside.

When I take my first big gulp of the cool night air, I immediately feel a hundred times better. As my thoughts begin to settle, I am forced to acknowledge that if there is one thing I have learned tonight it is this: salsa club with Damon equals bad.

"Thanks for suggesting this," Damon says, taking a few tentative paces as he waits for me to follow. I hop a few steps until I'm next to him, feeling oddly euphoric now that we are alone with the whole night ahead of us.

Caroline and I dropped our work bags at home and changed into shorter, more dance-friendly skirts after we left The Square, so I am thankfully only carrying a small cross-body purse with the essentials and nothing else.

"Some women are crazy about crowded places like that and I wasn't sure if you were secretly one of them and didn't want to leave."

"Well you could have just asked, you know," I say. "Honesty _is_ the best policy, after all." I shoot him a teasingly conspicuous side-glance.

Damon tenses. "You read it?"

"Of course I did! I told you I was going to," I say, nudging his shoulder with mine. But when I look up to see his answering smile, he is giving me that uneasy look he's been wearing off and on all night instead.

And that's when it dawns on me.

"Damon, oh my God, I haven't even had a chance to talk to you about it yet!" I say, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing it to get his attention.

Momentarily distracted by the solid muscles I feel under his shirt, I see a brief, unbidden flash of my hands gliding tenderly over the smooth skin of his chest, rising and falling heavily as he pants for breath, my fingers guiding his open shirt over his shoulders and slowly down his biceps.

I quickly retrieve my hand.

"Well, I would have asked you about it but there wasn't a really great time to do it tonight," Damon says, keeping his jacket tucked into the crook of his arm as he shoves his hands in his pockets. He shrugs as he continues to walk, glancing briefly in my direction before turning toward the street in front of us.

"Damon," I say, waiting until he looks at me before I continue. We slow naturally to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, somehow completely alone in the midst of a busy thoroughfare.

"It's _amazing_," I say to him, slowly so he'll understand. "_A-ma-zing_. You have an incredible gift."

He searches my face, his expression flitting from disbelief to relief to happiness in the space of a moment.

"Really?" he asks, a smile tugging at one side of his lips.

"_Actually_," I add, going for the jugular, "I want you to let me get it published."

Damon sucks in a breath. "Published? Holy shit, Elena! But I…I didn't get a chance to finish proof reading the draft, or—"

"It's great the way it is, Damon," I interrupt. I know I am beaming at him, but I can't help it. I love how open his face looks when he is too stunned to cover his tracks. "Just a few typos here and there but that's the easy stuff. It's all there. _And_ it's _ridiculously_ marketable. Please, Damon, let me get you a publishing deal."

"_Damn_," he says, running a hand through his hair and scratching the back of his neck. I watch his face as he tries and then fails to process what I'm saying. "I've gotta think about that. I mean, it was hard enough just letting you take a look at it. But a publishing deal?"

"Okay, fair enough," I say, wincing internally when I think of my phone call and courier service to Sharon White. "But just know that I _will_ break you down, Salvatore. I always get my way in the end." I bust out The Glare, just to drive my point home.

"Yes, I suppose you do," Damon says, flashing me a smile that's just the tiniest bit pained and smoothly resuming our walk without me.

I gape for a moment before I realize I am being left in the dust and hurry after him to catch up. "Wait, what the heck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Damon says, shrugging as he gives me a wide-eyed innocent look that has me far from fooled.

"Not _nothing_," I press. "You meant _something_ by that."

Damon hesitates, but when he realizes I'm not going to let it go he sighs, looking down at his feet before he meets my eyes in a gaze that I was expecting to be full of mirth. Instead it smolders, melting across so many emotions so quickly, it's impossible to name a single one.

After a long pause, Damon speaks. "Caroline says you're one of the very best." He shrugs, going for nonchalance but the movement looks forced. "I'd imagine you know all the tricks for getting a client to do your bidding," he adds, trying to charm me with his most mischievous smile. I can tell he's deflecting, but something about how hard he is working to do it makes me want to let him off the hook and play along.

"You'd imagine correctly," I say, shooting him a mockingly smug side-smile. He returns it with a smirk of his own and we continue walking in silence, both of us deep in thought.

I consider his book, about how much work he must have put into it, and my curiosity wins out over the silence.

"Have you ever written anything before, Damon?" I ask.

He looks at me strangely. "No, why do you ask?"

"Because your writing is so entertaining and cohesive and distinct. Not to mention how smooth the advice seems to be." I shrug. "Frankly it's just kind of mind-boggling and a little obnoxious that you were able to just sit down and write this amazing book out of nowhere." He gives me a shy smile, and I think how simultaneously sad and adorable it is that he has no idea how talented he is at this. "How long did it take you to write it, if you don't mind my asking?"

Damon doesn't look at me for a long second. But when his eyes finally do slide up to meet mine, they are weighted with the implication of his words.

"About five years," he says softly. He searches my face, looking for the moment when I understand what that means.

"Katherine," I murmur, still holding his eyes. "You started writing after Katherine died."

He turns away and looks ahead once more, his eyes unfocused. "Yeah, I did," he says simply.

My mind is racing. I know almost nothing about her, about what their relationship was like. Prior to meeting Damon I never saw a reason to ask Stefan about it, and afterwards, I didn't want to seem like I was prying.

But I am so curious. He said she was like Francesca. What does that mean? How could he have been married to someone like her? Was he different then?

"Damon," I say. He turns to me, his eyes heavy and sad. They remind me of when I found him in the garden at the wedding shower, the first and last time he ever mentioned her name in my presence. If only we were there right now, where secrets feel safe, resting undisturbed like the coins shimmering at the bottom of our koi pond.

"Do you mind me asking what Katherine was like?"

He sighs, so quietly it's almost to himself. And for a long moment, that is the only indication I have that he's heard me. He just puts one foot slowly in front of the other, keeping his hands shoved into his pockets. When he turns to me again, he appraises me openly. It is a look that I am learning precedes anything that is difficult for him to say, as though he is considering whether I'll be able to carry the weight of it once he's laid it on me. My heart breaks for all the years he has had to shoulder that weight all alone.

He lets his eyes slip down to his feet, his shoulders curving inward. "I don't mind telling you about her, Elena, but the truth about our relationship is a little more complicated than you've probably imagined."

I reach out my hand to touch his arm again, pulling gently so he stops to face me.

"You know you don't have to sugar-coat things for me, right?" His eyes dart between mine, looking vaguely pained. I squeeze his arm one more time before I force myself to let go. I almost open my mouth to give him an out, to tell him it's alright if he doesn't want to tell me, but there is something in his eyes that stops the words behind my teeth. He looks conflicted and hesitant, but not because he doesn't want to tell me.

It's because he wants to.

I wait, keeping my body still, my expression patient.

"Okay," he says simply. A light smile starts to creep onto his face. "But if I'm going to tell you this story, I am going to need another drink."

"What about here?" I say, motioning with my thumb to the empty-looking dive we are stopped next to.

"Wow, Gilbert, you really are all about closing the deal, aren't you?" Damon says with a teasing smirk.

"Well, you don't get to be one of the very best without being able to lock in the terms, _Salvatore_," I tease back. "Let's go." I start making my way toward the entrance.

"Whoa, Elena, hold on!" Damon calls after me, and I feel his hand close gently but firmly around my wrist. He tugs and the momentum sends me spinning towards him, the unexpected movement leaving me breathless.

I see him swallow hard and I swear I see his eyes dart to my lips again for the tiniest of seconds. The air around us charges, humming to life.

When he speaks again his voice is husky and rough. The combination of that delicious sound and his hand, so warm through the silk of my shirt, makes the blood that is racing through my heart begin to rush in my ears, to pulse somewhere lower, deeper.

"Not here," he says, and it takes me a whole second to remember that he is not talking about what the gathering ache in my lower belly thinks he is.

"Why?" I ask, and my voice is so breathy and foreign sounding I almost don't recognize it.

Damon blinks several times and releases my arm and I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard once more. He takes a small, slightly unsteady step back.

"It's too empty," he says shakily. He clears his throat, his eyelashes fluttering as he refocuses on me again. "I mean, it has to be terrible, if it's this empty on a Friday night and everywhere else around it is so crowded."

"Empty is good, Damon," I say, trying to make the cadence of my words sound as natural as possible. "I want to actually be able to hear what you are saying." I straighten my spine, gaining confidence as I feel myself settling. "How can we go wrong? It's a _bar_. It's not like we're going to get food poisoning or anything."

His mouth quirks up. "Alright, fine, Bossy Lady. But just so you know you don't need to torture me with horrible bourbon to get me to tell you all of my secrets, I'm already planning on telling you whatever you need to know."

"I like to cover my bases," I say with a smirk. "C'mon."

I don't know if it's the last of the faint liquid courage still flowing through my bloodstream, or the residual exhilaration still rushing through my body at whatever seemed to pass between Damon and me a moment ago. Maybe it's something about the open smile on his face, the slight flush to his cheeks. Or the possibility that he was looking at my lips, even for a split second.

But whatever it is, it gives me the courage to hold my hand out, palm up.

It is a question I don't want him to hear me asking.

And the open, blindingly-beautiful smile that breaks out across his entire face the moment before he takes my hand makes everything I've risked in that single action worth it.

* * *

_Author's Note: Cliffhanger! Don't worry, lovies. NightLight loves you and would never leave you high and dry...for long, hehe._

___Did anybody play Chan Chan while they were reading?_

_PLEASE leave me a REVIEW and tell me what you think! Me and my beta are in a race to see who can write the most words in the next 5 weeks so I NEED your Review-Fuel to win! I need my NightLight cheering team! TROGDOR19, YOU ARE GOING DOWN! WHO'S WITH ME?_

_Speaking of my illustrious beta, Trogdor19, here's to you and your hot monkey socks. May whatever comes after the Tempranillo be hotter than the 21st century version of a glimpsed ankle. And Goldnox, thank you for providing me with a life-making forehead stamp, and for betaing with enthusiasm despite your intense dissatisfaction with the events that transpired in Ch. 12. And also, never stop sexy spamming me. Like, ever._

_Review, Follow, and Favorite, folks! _

_XOXO,_

_NightLight_


	14. Ch 14 - Katherine and the Deep Blue Sea

**Chapter 14: Katherine and the Deep Blue Sea**

Apparently, the odds are in our favor tonight. Our randomly chosen dive bar is actually kind of a gem.

It looks clean and orderly, but also cozy and old-fashioned, all smooth dark wood instead of sleek chrome and glass like the bars around my apartment. Their only crime to explain the lack of patronage seems to be the price and quality of their drinks. Both are too high for a boozy Friday night drunk-fest, which is what most everyone in this area is after at the moment.

I can tell Damon is happier than he is letting on, obviously not wanting to admit my instincts are sharper than a saber-toothed tiger's saber-teeth. But the subtle crinkle at the corner of his eyes when the bartender listed the available bourbons told me all I needed to know.

The bartender delivers our drinks, a bourbon with a fancy name for Damon and a glass of Pinot for me. Before Damon has even managed to touch the rim of his glass to his lips I've turned on my stool to face him, batting my eyelashes in playful expectation.

"Can I help you?" he asks, trying to feign innocence despite the smile tugging at one corner of his lips.

"Don't 'can I help you' _me_, mister," I say, fixing him with a teasing glare. "I was promised a story."

Damon takes a sip of his bourbon. "So bossy," he says, flaring his lashes and smirking.

I prop my cheekbone on my fist as my elbow presses into the bar-top, waiting with a patient smile that tells him I've got all night. But when he looks down at the bar and his smile begins to fade, my resolve falters.

I am about to let him off the hook when I hear him release a long, weary exhale.

"Katherine was beautiful," he begins matter-of-factly. He squints and searches my face. "She looked a lot like you, actually," he adds, smiling softly. "Only, she always wore her hair in waves."

I feel the twist of something sharp and slippery in my gut. _Beautiful._ Of course she was.

Wait.

_Did he just call _me_ beautiful too?_

I swallow hard against the feathers tickling the inside of my belly, barely resisting the urge to touch my hair.

I settle on a sip of my wine instead.

"We met when I was in grad school," he continues. "She was studying to be a sex therapist."

I almost spit out my drink.

I manage to swallow before I blurt out, "A sex therapist? What, like Dr. Ruth or something?" I get a brief flash of a wavy-haired version of me in a white lab coat and grandma glasses, holding a three-dimensional and partially disassembled model of the male anatomy. I shake my head to dislodge the disturbing visual and slide my drink away from me as subtly as I can. Maybe I've had enough for the night.

Damon looks simultaneously stunned and tickled by my reaction. "Yeah, something like that, I guess," he says casually, but the odd smile curving the edge of his mouth has my brain working overtime.

And suddenly the bar seems very warm.

He turns back to face me. "She was…" His gaze drifts away for moment, searching, before he settles on the simplest answer with a shrug. "Well, she was _Katherine_. She was magnetic."

An unwelcome and completely unwarranted pang of jealousy lances through me, but I keep my face neutral. Suddenly—next to my newfound imagination of Katherine Salvatore: Amazonian Sex-Goddess—I am feeling painfully unremarkable.

Damon turns his drink on the polished wooden surface of the bar, staring unseeingly as he untangles the past, loosening threads of memory in search of the ones that will weave the story he needs to tell.

"I was head over heels for her immediately," he says, shifting uncomfortably in his chair at his admission. "I loved her like…like there wasn't room for anything else in my life but her. It just took me over."

I picture him, younger, his face stained with the flush of infatuation, the blissful innocence of a yet-unbroken heart.

_Damon, in love_.

Emotion wells inexplicably in my throat. I adjust my earring to cover, blinking and swallowing it back before forcing it completely from my mind, afraid to examine the surging _something_ that riots just under the surface.

"Katherine and me…it wasn't good," he says simply. "She was very manipulative. I think she loved me in her own way, but she just…she wasn't really capable of loving someone without seeing it as some sort of power play." He shrugs, but the stiffness of his shoulders belies the casual gesture.

I try to imagine what it must have been like for him, to be married to someone like that. I think of Francesca, the fierceness lying just beneath her polite exterior, her subtle but constant need for one-upmanship, and suddenly, Katherine's comparison to her makes sense. Maybe someone like that is a good match for a hard and unyielding man like Giuseppe, but Damon? Someone as sensitive and intuitive as he is would be absolutely miserable.

"She had only ever been loved conditionally, really," he continues. "Her parents were very rich, very successful." He takes a brief sip of his bourbon. "Very _absent_. You know the story, rich, disengaged parents that are more interested in who's going to the next charity ball and throwing material shit at the problem to assuage their guilt than in being what their daughter actually _needs_." he scoffs, looking disgusted.

His tone is so impassioned, so…personal.

_"Well, oddly enough, there are actually some things money can't buy."_

He'd said that just a few weeks ago, but he wasn't talking about Katherine that evening.

He was talking about himself.

_Damon, oh, Damon._

I reach for my drink once more, rethinking my earlier bravery. In fact, I may need a second if I'm going to make it through this story.

"With Katherine's parents, there was never any direct, authentic interest in who she was. In what made her _her_. Anyways, that was sort of how she loved people, how she loved _me_: from a distance."

He stops, flashing me a nervous look before blowing out a self-conscious laugh, raking an unsteady hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I'm getting all therapist-y aren't I?" he asks.

I chuckle lightly. "Yeah I guess you are, but I don't mind, honestly. I'm just having a really hard time imagining what that must have been like for you," I say carefully, not wanting to speak ill of the dead. "I'm really sorry," I say, reaching out to give his arm a brief encouraging squeeze through the surprisingly luxurious-feeling fabric covering his forearm.

"Thank you," he says, absently rubbing his hand over the spot where I'd touched him before downing the last of his bourbon and motioning to the bartender for another.

"So am I off the hook yet?" he asks hopefully.

I consider my answer. "If you want to be, Damon, I understand, but I really want to hear the rest, if you are up for it," I admit.

He dips his head, shaking it dejectedly. "Stubborn woman," he says, before glaring up at me mischievously. I just smile.

He expels a deep sigh with a good-natured smile, but I watch as his brows begin to knit together, his mouth tighten into a thin line. He swirls his glass absently on the bartop.

"_Anyway_," he continues, "I guess it'd be a pretty staggering understatement to say that this was _not_ a healthy relationship for me." He goes for a smirk, but it fades too quickly. "I was at her complete mercy and she knew it. And _unfortunately_, she was also not afraid to use it."

He looks tentatively up at me, and I struggle to keep my expression as neutral as possible despite the aching sadness and horrified disbelief racing through my bloodstream in turn. I'm not sure how successful I am, because when he continues again, his words bend just the tiniest bit toward defensiveness for his former wife.

"Not that it was all bad," he qualifies. "She was incredibly smart, spontaneous; she kept me on my toes. We got through school together…barely." He smiles wistfully into his drink, remembering. "We spent that summer traveling, then came home to focus on completing our hours, getting our licenses—getting married. She started a therapy clinic with her father's money, and with all of his rich friends desperate to keep up with their dissatisfied child-bride trophy wives, she had a full client roster within the first six months.

"_My_ Dad, as you can imagine, wasn't supportive of my chosen profession. He couldn't forgive me for refusing to take over the family business." He rolls his shoulders, bristling at the memory. "So I went to work where I had done my training hours."

I feel a flash of unreasonable protectiveness over Damon, trying to imagine him tugging at his too-tight tie and mussing his hair with worry all day over a pile of paperwork, searching for loopholes and technicalities rather than being able to get to the heart of the issue face to face with people like he loves to do. Stefan is such a natural at it, his endless patience and bone-deep passion for justice perfectly suited to the task, his compassion somehow working for him rather than against him.

But the fact that Giuseppe imagined Damon would be happy at a job like that tells me that he either didn't know Damon at all or he didn't care. Neither option is particularly encouraging.

"The owner of the practice had become sort of a friend of mine," Damon continues. "At first, I mainly picked up the clients he couldn't make time for because his schedule was getting too full. But before long he was passing more and more of his clients off to me until when he retired a few years later, I took over the lease on the office and he effectively left me his entire practice. It was like something out of a fairytale. Insta-practice, insta-success. Katherine and I had achieved everything we'd ever wanted. We worked hard at jobs we loved every day, came home and lived in passionately wedded bliss every night." He chuckles hollowly and scrubs his hand roughly over the back of his neck. "What could go wrong, right?"

I try for a smile but give up and adjust the napkin under my drink instead, not wanting to risk him seeing how I feel about him living in passionately wedded bliss with anyone.

_Especially anyone like Katherine,_ I justify.

"Well, about 3 years into our marriage, I started to think a lot about starting a family. Katherine and I had talked about it before we got married and I thought that it was something we'd _both_ wanted. I knew that Katherine had never wanted to be a full-time mom and I never asked her to be. We always talked about splitting time taking care of the kids: cutting back hours, staggering workdays, hiring help. You know, doing whatever it took."

I nod, foreboding tightening like a fist in my gut. I think I know where this story is going.

"But when the time finally came to start talking seriously about making our family a reality, she sort of pulled away. At first she stalled, making all kinds of excuses for why it wasn't a good time to talk about it or why it wasn't the right time for her practice or whatever. I respected her desire to wait. We hadn't been married all that long and I knew we still had plenty of time.

"But as the months dragged on and it became clear to me that she was blowing me off, I tried to start a dialogue about it to get to the bottom of things. I mean, we were therapists…it should have been easy right?" One corner of his mouth turns up in a humorless smirk that makes my heart ache.

"I confronted her about avoiding me," he says. "By this time I was starting to get a pretty good idea that she had changed her mind about wanting to have kids. But I felt like I deserved her at least _talking to me_ about it, you know?"

"Brutal honesty is the kindest confidence," I murmur almost to myself, quoting from his book.

Damon's expression flickers and then hums to life with surprise, animated for the first time since he started talking about Katherine. "Yeah, that's right," he says with a smile.

"Believe it or not, I actually pay attention to what I'm reading," I say, flashing him a teasing grin.

I expect him to laugh or make a joke, but instead he searches my face with a slightly bewildered look that makes the surface of my skin ripple with awareness.

"Go on, Damon," I tell him when I can't take it anymore. I don't want him to look too long and find something he isn't supposed to see.

"Of course, where was I?" he asks, blinking as his brow furrows.

"Honesty," I say.

"Ah, yes." Damon nods, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

"At any rate, I begged her to be honest with me. I gave her total freedom to say whatever she needed to say, no judgment. You know how it goes, Elena, just like I do in my practice—eggshell-free feet and all of that." He smirks but it fades quickly. He shoves a hand through his hair. "Bottom line, she didn't want to."

He sighs and rubs his forehead with his fingers.

"Maybe I pushed her too hard, you know? Maybe I could have waited a little while, brought it up again after she'd had a chance not to feel so cornered about it. I don't know." He shakes his head, his expression touched with more hurt than regret.

"When I refused to let it go, she started pulling out her manipulation playbook." He looks up at me, his expression carefully matter-of-fact. "She could be very cruel when she wanted to."

His emotionless delivery sends goosebumps sweeping down my arms. If he is working this hard to conceal what he is feeling, there must be a lot to hide.

His eyelashes drop down toward his drink. "She would spend entire nights refusing to talk to me. I would come home to an empty house, only to have her crawl into bed in the wee hours of the morning, never deigning to give me an explanation of where she had been. She stopped having sex with me, stopped touching me even.

The word "touch" falling from his lips makes my fingertips itch. I want to use my hands to erase the memory of her rejection, to let my skin whisper to him of his worth.

"But then there were some days where I might walk in after work to see her reading at the dinner table with a home-cooked meal all laid out, asking about my day." He continues, oblivious to my struggle. His brow furrows, still bearing the echo of that long-ago confusion. "Or she would meet me at the door in lingerie or in nothing but a pair of stilettos." A light smirk tugs at his bewildered expression and I feel the beginnings of a traitorous blush creeping up my neck. I take deep breaths, hoping it will fade quickly enough that he'll miss it.

"Or she would act like nothing at all had ever happened and it would be just like before," he says. "Those were the days that made me stick it out. I missed those days more than anything." He exhales deeply.

"I never knew what I was going to come home to. I was out of my mind, obsessed with her moods, her happiness. I was afraid to talk about anything that might make her upset, so we talked mainly about nothing."

He shakes his head slowly, ruefully. I wait.

"What's so ironic about all of it, Elena, is I was _so desperate_ to make her happy that I probably would have done anything." He looks up at me, his expression almost embarrassed, belying the shame of his admission. "If she had just been able to tell me she was sorry and hear me out, give me the tiniest indication that she cared, I probably would have done whatever she wanted. I would have given up having a family, just for her. I loved her that much."

I let out a long slow breath. But I don't move a muscle, wanting to be so careful with the gift of his story.

"But I understand now, she was more comfortable _in control_ than in love. And for someone like me who had barely known affection apart from conditions and expectations, it felt a little too much like home," he chuckles sadly, a sound that makes my heart throb painfully in my chest.

"I hated what I became when I was with her; what she reduced me to. I see now that we wouldn't have been happy together, even though it took my mourning her death like the sun and stars had burned out before I was finally able to accept that."

He swallows what's left of his drink and stares into the emptiness of his glass.

"The night of the accident, I was catching up on paperwork at the office, afraid to go home. When I got the phone call, I lost it. I ripped the whole office apart, threw my old laptop against the wall. And in the middle of this…_rage_, I came across this picture of us that we had taken in grad school. It was one of the first things I set up in my office when I took over the practice, but it was always buried on my desk, you know?"

I smile. _Yes, I know_ _all about that desk_.

"Anyway, this picture, it just…it reminded me of a simpler time. Of the way it used to feel to be with her, to be loved by her, and it made me realize that I'd lost her a long time ago. It made me miss her so damn much, but it was different somehow."

I can't help it. My hand reaches out of its own accord to touch his forearm. This time it is skin on skin, and I curl my fingers around him fiercely

"Damon—" I say, dipping my head to search for his down-turned eyes. Instead, I feel his cool hand slip over the top of mine.

The unexpected sensation of his fingers brushing my skin, the weight of his hand feels so good—so familiar and natural. I swallow hard.

"Damon," I start, gathering my courage despite my galloping heart. "I just need to say that…I know it must have been incredibly difficult to try to make sense of the things you were feeling when she died."

I think of my brother Jeremy. His blood on the window, and me too terrified to look, to help. I lower my voice, gentling Damon's pain with compassion, the only thing that has ever dulled the sting of my own regret. "Especially when you were likely feeling a lot of things that might have made you feel guilty or ashamed or conflicted.

"But, I think it needs to be said that it's _okay_ that it was complicated. I may not be a _therapist_," I tease, "but as someone who has experienced a lot of grief, I know that sometimes the things you feel in the midst of it don't always add up."

I offer him a reassuring squeeze and then tug lightly to release my hand, not wanting to be distracted by how good his touch feels. I miss it immediately, but I rush on.

"Even though we try to compartmentalize and organize our lives to make it appear as though we have everything in order, that's not really reality, you know? Life is _messy_. And when you lose somebody, the truth of everything just sort of…comes out. And it's not always pretty or simple or clean, but it's never wrong. Whatever you felt or still feel about her, Damon, it isn't _wrong_.

"The truth is, Damon," I say, leaning closer and softening my voice, "whatever reasoning she had for doing what she did to you, _she_ was wrong. You don't have to be a therapist to know that loving someone means opening yourself up to them. It means being vulnerable when you are afraid and it means being gracious and considerate and self-sacrificing when you could be selfish, even when you _want_ to be selfish. It means doing what you have to do, no matter what, to make things work for _both of you_. And occasionally, you do things just for them, because you love them and if you don't do it, who will? I don't mean that she should have had kids with you just to make you happy," I qualify at Damon's surprised expression, "but she should have told you _the truth_. She should have heard you out, given you a chance to be heard and understood." I lean back. You deserved that from Katherine, Damon. She was wrong not to give it to you."

His eyelashes flicker and his fingers tighten on his empty glass, but he doesn't speak so I go on.

"She loved you, Damon." I say, with all the wholehearted belief I feel. "She just didn't know how to _love you_ when she was afraid. She didn't know how to deal with the fear of what it might do to your relationship to admit that she had changed her mind, so she pushed you away before she could lose you.

I continue, momentum propelling conviction ahead of sensitivity, "she was a fool, Damon. You're a good man, and she was lucky to have you. She shouldn't have squandered that. She shouldn't have squandered you."

I feel my face flush at my harsh words and reckless admission but I meet Damon's stunned stare without apology. But where I expect to see defensiveness for his wife, there is…_something else_ instead. Something smoldering and bright, disturbing the surface of his expression yet just out of reach.

My skin sparks to life and I wait, my entire body crackling and singing in the charged air. After a long moment, a smile begins to break across his lips, looking so guileless and free that my mouth mirrors it of its own accord.

"Wow, Gilbert," he says, sounding surprised. "Looks like you may need to reconsider your current career path. You're a natural grief counselor."

I laugh, and it feels like such a relief after all of the heaviness of his story, my words.

"Oh and wouldn't _that_ be a great idea," I say sarcastically. "I'm pretty sure I just insulted your wife and appointed myself the 'Official Grief Guru'—for someone who actually _is _a grief expert, no less."

"No, Elena, I'm serious." Damon says. The echo of regret still haunt the edges of his eyes, but they've found their familiar twinkle again. I can't wipe the grin off my face that I helped put it back there.

"It's one thing to know something is true because you've read about it or seen other people go through it or even _helped_ other people get through it," he chuckles. "But it's harder to see things clearly when you are in it yourself." He scrubs his hand over the back of his neck, looking almost shy as he flashes me a tentative smile.

"It's nice to talk to someone with some new insight for a change."

I am grinning ear to ear as I lift my glass in a mock salute. "Well, Mr. Salvatore, I am glad to be of service," I lift my chin in a show of mock bravado, downing the last of my drink. "That'll be $150 dollars, please."

He throws his head back in one of those unguarded laughs that that makes my scalp tingle and my chest ache.

When he looks at me again, the last of his mirth still dancing across his features, I feel my breath leave my lungs. God, he is beautiful—his face flushed and bright with laughter.

"Well, I hope you'll settle for me buying your drinks for the night," he smirks at me.

"No!" I exclaim a little too loudly. Damon recoils, looking equal parts surprised and amused by my fervent denial. "Sorry," I giggle. "It's just that I just now remembered—I actually owe _you_ money from our little wager before the wedding shower. Remember? Whether or not Stefan was gonna subject you to the awkward brotherly side-hug? I saw no such thing, so I owe you ten."

"Elena, you are not going to pay the tab," Damon says, looking vaguely horrified.

"Why not? You won that money fair and square."

"Well…" Damon trails off, shifting in his seat as his cheeks start take on a decisively ruddier hue.

"Wait a second," I say, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. "Stefan _did_ go for that hug, didn't he?" Damon's guilty expression is all the confirmation I need.

"Ha! I knew it!" I say triumphantly. "Well, then pay up, Salvatore! Drinks are on you tonight."

Damon pulls his wallet out with a chuckle and counts out cash, setting it on the bar top. "Thank God, woman. My ego is already in shambles after you out-did me at my own job tonight, the last thing I need is for you to pick up the bill too."

"Hey, Grandpa, in case you haven't noticed, we are firmly in the 21st century here." I say, gesturing to the room and the world in general. "Last I checked, women are voting too!" I bring my hand over my mouth and gasp theatrically, earning an eye roll from Damon. "It's only fair that you let me pay _some_ of the time." I say mischievously.

But then he wipes the mischief right off my face by leaning in close and bringing his lips down close to my cheek. His masculine scent fills my nostrils, his breath hot against the shell of my ear, my jaw. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly unbearably dry, even as that traitorous tension begins to gather in my lower belly once more.

His voice is a husky whisper that makes me think of sex and all the delicious things that voice saying just the right things could do to me. I clench my fists in my lap as my body responds without my consent—my sex softening with want, even as my nipples harden and swell, tingling with awareness at the warmth rolling off of his body, so unbearably close to me.

"Yes, but how fair is that I'm supposed to be the professional, yet you're the one who knew just what I needed to hear tonight?"

He sits back and I try to swallow discreetly, a sharp pang arguing in my throat. His voice is soft and intimate when he speaks. "How you do that, I'll never know," he murmurs, almost to himself. His eyes dart over my face, touching my forehead, my cheekbones, my lips. I can feel his breath against my eyelashes. I want to ask him what he means, but I can't form words, as afraid to break the spell as I am _not_ to.

He swallows hard and gives my lips one last farewell look before he looks away, his fingers tightening on his empty glass before he pushes it away decisively.

"Wanna get out of here?" he asks, his voice still raw and gravelly. I shiver.

I clear my throat as inconspicuously as I can, blinking rapidly as I try my best to recover myself, to ignore the traitorous sensations still pulsing through my decisively uncooperative body.

"Yeah, let's do it," I say.

When we step out into the cool of the evening, I am grateful for the chill. I focus on the way it soothes my overheated skin through my shirt, steadies my galloping heart, smoothes my jumbled thoughts. I breathe a contented sigh.

I look over at Damon.

And I have to catch my breath all over again.

His dark hair is in its usual disheveled state from the many journeys his hands took through it tonight—his skin pale, bearing just the slightest hint of a flush in the cold night air. The clear silver-blue of his eyes is shining like an otherworldly element that is part liquid and part diamond and part sky and all too beautiful to seem real.

"Want me to hail you a cab?" he asks.

"Nah, I think I'll walk," I say, looking towards the safety of home as I wrap my arms around my own shoulders, gathering myself.

"Walk?" Damon exclaims, horrified. "It's 1 A.M. and your place is 10 blocks from here at least!"

"That's okay, Damon, I don't mind." I chuckle, turning back to him. A breeze disturbs my hair and I tuck it back behind my ear. "I'd like to get a little fresh air actually, stretch my legs." _Clear my head._

"Let me walk with you," he offers, his gaze lingering on that stray lock of hair.

"Thank you so much Damon, but you don't have to do that. Your place is in the opposite direction. I'll just walk myself."

"With all due respect, Elena, _hell no_." Damon says passionately. "There's no way I'm betting on the odds that all the rapists and psychopaths in Manhattan are just going to look the other way when an irresistible lure like you walks by, unaccompanied and practically served up on a silver platter."

I open my mouth to argue but he plows on, not even waiting for my response. "Besides," he says, and I can tell by his tone that he is about to lay it on thick. "What would Caroline think if she knew I didn't deliver you safely home?"

I roll my eyes. "Sheesh, Damon, again with the old-timey chivalry. You sure you're not hiding some grey hair and wrinkles under that messy mop and young-ish exterior?"

"Young-_ish_…? _What_?" he says in only partially mock disbelief. "Maybe I need to do a formal psych eval on you after all, Miss Gilbert. It appears you may be having fits of blindness and possible delusions if you are failing to see the unequivocal young-_ness_—without the "ish"—of the strapping specimen before you."

He indicates his body with a sweep of his hand, looking like he's introducing a prize in a game show. I have to bite my cheek against a giggle so I don't surrender my chance to keep him wriggling on the hook a little longer. Turns out Damon—after three-quarters of a bottle of bourbon and a bruised ego—is a lot of fun to mess with.

"Perhaps I'm not the only one who needs an eval here," I return. "I think it's highly possible you might be suffering from an acute case of denial in the first degree."

He smiles like a cat about to trap a mouse, and it sends an odd thrill through me that I can't quite explain.

"Nice try, darling, but this is not a courtroom," he says. "There isn't a first degree or second degree or _any_ kind of degree for denial for that matter. It's just plain old 'denial.'"

"You said it, not me," I say smugly.

He throws his head back and laughs with abandon. I couldn't wipe the goofy smile off my face if I tried.

"Well since we've already established that you are the official therapist for the evening, I suppose I will have to leave that assessment up to you," he says, ducking his head conspiratorially as he leans closer. "But, just so you know, I object in the first degree," he says, his voice rumbly and low.

He mistakes my answering shiver for a chill and pulls his jacket off automatically to drape it over my shoulders. His smell surrounds me and the body heat still left in his jacket combined with its heavy, comforting weight feels like Damon's arms around me. I feel like a thief, stealing a moment with his jacket that he will never know about, that means so much more to me than it will to him.

He takes my hand and curls it into the crook of his arm. It feels as natural as breathing.

I tug lightly in the direction of home and he follows. I settle into the rhythm of his stride, our bodies whispering hello and goodbye as the uneven sidewalks flirt and the city streets tease, tipping us together and pull us apart over and over again. It is a dance I can follow, not like the strange steps I've felt myself twirling through tonight, my body taking control as my addled mind was left behind, staring in confusion from the sidelines.

After a few blocks of companionable silence, he slows to a stop and pulls away slightly. I expect him to make a joke or start a conversation, but he doesn't. His face looks different than I expected somehow—heavier, full of things that look like they want to be voiced, straining and fluid and rioting like the surface of a stormy sea. I stare into them, willing his secrets to find their way to his lips, to me. But when he looks away and resumes his easy stride, I let it go.

Because somehow, even in the midst of everything he shared with me tonight, I have finally come to understand the terrible yet undeniable truth.

His hidden words aren't mine to know.

They were for someone who looked like me, who squandered them and then was gone.

They are for someone else—some future woman who is not, has never been, his client.

She will have a lifetime to learn every color his eyes can make, every thought and emotion they conceal. Every beautiful shade of blue I have yet to discover will be hers alone—to cherish, to squander, to love.

With Damon, I will always be a thief, a liar and a fool. Every moment I have with him is stolen, every casual utterance of his name is a deception, every inch of ground gained will ultimately be at my expense.

Because they are for her. That nameless, faceless someone. She is out there, and he will be hers. And I will be what the mocking voice in my head reminds me I have claimed to be all along.

A friend.

The hunger I feel to be near him, the way my skin ignites in his presence, the empty ache that throbs in my chest when he's gone.

How have I not seen? How have I not known?

Suddenly, it is there, that rippling nameless wave at the edge of everything I am. It heaves and roils and swirls into my consciousness, flooding me with a tide of sudden knowing so steady and so sure, I don't even react. I just breathe, arm in arm, step after step, walking in painfully easy silence. Because it was there all along, I just didn't see it until now. And there is nothing to do but continue on as I have been, doing what I have done, existing as I have existed.

Love.

I am in love with him.

I press into him, resting in the strength of his body beside me, the easy pace of his steps, the steady assurance of my calmly beating heart.

Love.

And when I reach my front door and tell him goodbye, when I feel his scent wafting from my hair as I hit the pillow, when I close my eyes to dream, every thought is of him. How much I love him, and how little it matters.

I sleep, dreaming of burning silver and pale skin and thirst…of bobbing placidly over riotous, rolling blue water I can never drown in, can never drink from.

I sleep.

* * *

_Author's Note: GASP! Poor Elena! So what do we think of the backstory folks? Please leave me a REVIEW and let me know! I love hearing where your heads are at after each chapter! SO PLEASE DO IT! If being a whore for reviews is wrong I don't want to be right._

_Fun fact: A version of this chapter was one of the very first I wrote, before I had any real plans for a plot or the clear desire to write an actual fic for that matter. *sigh* and look at us now! 14 chapters posted and I'm writing the last 4 over the next 3 weeks! Fear not all of you who are anxious for Delena to just give in already. Stay with me...I promise it will be worth the slow burn and that your patience will be CONSIDERABLY rewarded._

_Word count race update: No good way to say this folks...I am losing, lol. But because of your AWESOME reviews last week I WAS close to winning for a little while, which is quite a feat when you consider I have 2 kids and Miss Trogdor19 had 3 days off where she did nothing but write so it kind of isn't even fair. I am still working on catching her ass and your reviews SERIOUSLY kept me writing until 3am every night when my kids wake up at 6:30am and I wasn't even mad about it. So thank you._

_SPEAKING OF TROGDOR19 OUT-WRITING ME: Did you know today is all y'all's birthday? TROGDOR19 HAS A NEW FIC! IT'S AMAZING. Go read it and leave lots of lovely reviews. Her muse is on fire, and TRUST ME YOU ARE GOING TO BE SO HAPPY WHEN YOU SEE WHAT SHE HAS UP HER SLEEVE. YOU WILL BE DYING._

_Speaking of Trogdor19, for the love of Pete, Sam, and Larry, THANK YOU. Your beta'ing capabilities—from a golf cart in the middle of the Mojave desert, getting hassled by Russian misogynists and out-hardcore-ed by the crazy mother of a 2-month-old, no less—are nothing short of astounding._

_Till next week, lovies._

_NightLight_


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